


our footprints in the dust

by RecklessWriter



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Attempted Fratricide, Brother Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Gen, Not plot-driven, Time Travel, Uchiha Itachi-centric, Uchiha Sasuke-centric, itachi JUST TELL THE TRUTH, light humor, sasuke and itachi both go back in time, sasuke doesn't know the truth yet, sasuke please stop trying to kill your brother, this makes things complicated, this story is character-driven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23262517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecklessWriter/pseuds/RecklessWriter
Summary: The sword slips from Sasuke’s fingers. Beside him, Itachi stares, an identical look of shock on his usually-expressionless face.“Mom?”Suddenly six years in the past, Sasuke is determined to save his clan. The solution, to him, is simple: he just has to kill his brother.If only the target of his plans hadn’t come with him.Itachi, meanwhile, is forced to deal with repeated fratricide attempts, the parents that he killed, and an illness that is rapidly worsening—all while trying to keep up the lies that are unraveling around him.
Relationships: Uchiha Fugaku & Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Mikoto & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Shisui
Comments: 726
Kudos: 1576
Collections: Mixed_Fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before you guys start loudly judging me for starting another multichap story without finishing the other ones first: this story is already finished. It's already completely written.
> 
> I may be _posting_ a new story, but I'm not _starting_ a new story. Since it's already completely finished and written, me beginning to post it isn't going to cut into any of the time I spend on my other stories.
> 
> (At this point, I know better than to start any more new stories before I've finished some of my current ones...)
> 
> This story takes place between original Naruto and Shippuden. Sasuke is fourteen and Itachi is nineteen.

There’s a crow circling above Sasuke’s head. Sasuke scowls when he sees it, pushing aside the branches in his path.

 _I hate crows_ , he thinks. The bird caws loudly, and Sasuke’s hand tightens around the scroll that he’s carrying. His other hand curls into a fist.

He doesn’t think about why he hates crows.

The forest he’s walking in is thick, blocking out most of the afternoon sun. Above him, the sky is barely visible through the leaves. The only noise is the sound of his feet against the ground.

(And the damn crow, circling above him. He wishes it would shut up.)

Sasuke scowls as he walks, resisting the urge to kick at the ground in a childish display of irritation. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be wasting his time traipsing across Fire Country. He has better things to be doing.

But Orochimaru wanted his message delivered to the Southern Hideout, and Sasuke was the lucky disciple that was volunteered for the job. As if he were no more than an errand boy.

 _Damn bastard_ , he thinks, his scowl deepening.

This is a complete waste of time that could be otherwise spent. He’s almost done perfecting a third variation of his Chidori. He should be _training_. Instead, Orochimaru would rather he _deliver a message_.

 _Be a dear_ , the man had said, _and run this over to Karin, would you? That’s a boy._

The only way it could’ve been more demeaning is if he had pat Sasuke on the head.

He’s being treated like an errand boy, like a courier pigeon, and it makes him seethe. He's allowing Orochimaru to train him so that he can become stronger. That does _not_ make him one of the man's lackeys.

_If he thinks he can treat me like one of his brainless followers…_

Sasuke lifts his hand to touch the Curse Mark on his shoulder, scowling at the thought of it. He hates the mark, despite the power that it grants him. He hates the way it’s displayed on his skin, like a mark of ownership. He hates the way Orochimaru sometimes brushes his fingers over it, as if hissing _mine_.

He doesn’t belong to that snake. He doesn’t belong to anyone.

The crow in the sky above him caws again. Sasuke’s grip on the scroll tightens. _I'll take them both down. Him first. Then Itachi—_

Sasuke stops abruptly, feeling a sudden chill. He feels a strange feeling come over him, a sudden awareness of the fact that he’s not alone. There’s someone else close by.

“Who's there?” Sasuke calls out. His hand goes to the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at the slightest hint of danger. “Show yourself!”

The forest is quiet. For a long moment, nothing moves.

Slowly, a silent figure steps out from the trees. Black cloak with red clouds. Dark hair. Slashed forehead protector. Eyes identical to his own— 

A jolt goes through him, like touching an electrical wire. His eyes bleed into red.

“ _You_!” he snarls.

His Sharingan brings everything into sharp, vivid focus. But he doesn’t need it—the face in front of him is one he’s already memorized. He sees it every time he sleeps, every time he _blinks_.

“Sasuke,” Itachi says. “This is a surprise.”

He doesn’t _sound_ surprised. His voice is completely flat, devoid of any sort of tone. It causes Sasuke to shiver.

His hand is shaking on the hilt of his sword. There’s a wildfire raging in his chest, a tornado whirling in his head. For moment, he forgets how to breathe.

( _Foolish little brother._ )

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

Itachi looks back at him calmly. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I asked you first,” Sasuke retorts, and resists the immediate urge to wince. It sounds unbelievably childish.

“Business.”

Sasuke narrows his eyes. “ _Akatsuki_ business?”

Itachi is silent, his expression inscrutable. He takes a step forward. Sasuke instinctively steps back, his knuckles going white around his sword.

Itachi notices the reaction—of course he does. The corners of his lips turn up slightly.

“Don’t worry, Sasuke,” he says, in what is clearly the most condescending tone possible, “I’m not here for you.”

Sasuke feels himself flush with a combination of embarrassment and anger. Like hell he’s going to let this bastard think he’s _afraid_ of him.

(Even if he maybe actually is.)

“I’m not worried.” He moves forward a step, his eyes still a brilliant red. “ _You_ should be the one who's worried. Now I can kill you right here.”

It’s taking all his self-control to speak the words so calmly instead of shouting them. There’s a fire in his head, in his chest, in his heart. It burns like gasoline in his veins.

He hates the man in front of him. Hates him, hates him, _hates him_. His hands curl into fists, itching for blood. There’s an abyss in his head, words that echo relentlessly.

 _You’re still too weak_ , the voice hisses. _You don’t have enough hatred—_

He clenches his teeth, reminding himself of Orochimaru's words. One of the first things he taught him.

_Anger is a weapon. It can be used. But rage is a wildfire. Untamable. Out of control._

Sasuke takes a breath. He presses back on his fury, until it feels less like a hurricane raging inside him. He relaxes his jaw, steadies his shaking fists.

He won’t be the fool he was before. He won’t rush in blindly, rage clouding his thoughts.

Itachi notices this change as well, because he lifts an eyebrow. “Not going to scream and attack like last time?”

“I’m not that same kid anymore.”

Itachi’s cold eyes appraise him. His expression is unreadable, and Sasuke wonders what differences he’s cataloging. The three inches of height? The purple rope around his waist? The lack of a village headband?

“There were rumors that you’d joined Orochimaru. I see that they are true.”

It’s been eight months since he defected from Konoha. It’s a surprise the news hasn’t spread faster. Sasuke suspects the Hokage is attempting to keep it quiet.

Sasuke raises his chin, looking somewhere just to the left of Itachi’s eyes. _Not his eyes, never look him directly in the eyes._

“I’ll do anything to kill you. Even sell my soul to the devil himself, if I must.”

Something unreadable flickers across Itachi’s face. “Is that so? How low you’ve fallen, otouto.”

Sasuke's expression darkens. “I don’t want to hear that from _you_.”

Itachi Uchiha is an international criminal. He killed their entire family in cold blood. He has no right to judge _Sasuke_ for _his_ choices.

“You defected from Konoha,” Itachi says. “You betrayed your precious comrades and became a rogue ninja.”

Sasuke’s jaw clenches, his mind flashing to the old photograph folded up and stuffed in his pocket. Itachi’s eyes are _cold, cold, cold._

“You know, for someone who claims to hate me so much, you seem to be doing an excellent job at following in my footsteps.”

Sasuke is flooded with rage. Power surges within his eyes. “Don’t you dare compare me to _you_!”

Itachi— _not his brother, never his brother_ —is unaffected by his anger. His face is as expressionless as ever.

“Leave now,” he says, “and I’ll forget I saw you. I have no interest in fighting you.”

The words cause his anger to spark brighter, bringing to mind the hallway of an inn. Red eyes looking back at him in disinterest.

“Too bad,” Sasuke replies. “Because I _do_.”

Sasuke rushes forward. Itachi sighs, falling into a loose fighting stance.

“Very well. If you insist...”

Itachi reaches for a kunai, the blade spinning between his fingers before he reaches out. Sasuke halts the strike with his arm, but Itachi pushes it aside easily, blade cutting through air. Sasuke reaches down with his other hand, pulling on his sword—

The kunai is blocked by the sharp blade, metal against metal. Kusanagi presses forward, and Itachi doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look concerned. He doesn’t even look focused. He looks like he’s _bored_.

He hasn’t even activated his Sharingan.

 _He’s humoring me_ , Sasuke thinks. It makes him grit his teeth.

Itachi hooks his elbow around Sasuke's raised left arm. He grabs the same arm with his other hand, twisting his body into a kick, and knocking the hilt of Sasuke’s sword against his chin. Sasuke’s head jerks back as Itachi flips above him, and his sword cuts sharply through the air—

Itachi grabs the back of Sasuke’s shirt, avoiding the strike and flipping over him. He yanks Sasuke around, throwing him, and Sasuke grunts as he rolls. He stabs his sword into a tree to stop himself.

His hands are already forming the six seals. Blue lightning sparks in his palm, chirping loudly in the air.

“Chidori? _Again_ , Sasuke?” Itachi scoffs at him, eyes disdainful. “It seems you haven’t learnt anything—”

Sasuke slams his hand against the ground, and the chakra changes form. It flows from his hand, through his body and into the ground.

“ _Chidori Nagashi_!”

Itachi’s eyes widen in surprise. The current shoots out in his direction, and Itachi _leaps_ , the soles of his sandals sparking.

Sasuke is behind him, his sword pulled from the tree, slicing into Itachi’s back. Itachi’s body explodes in a flock of crows, feathers obscuring Sasuke’s vision. He lands back on the ground, and the man is in front of him, a foot kicking—

Sasuke ducks the leg, Kusanagi slicing through the air to block another lightning-fast strike—

There’s a sudden explosion, from somewhere not too far away. The ground reverberates, and Sasuke’s eyes widen, head snapping in the direction it came from.

_What…?_

Itachi is also looking in the same direction. His mouth is a thin line, his eyebrows drawn down. His expression seems to harden. He pushes off the ground without a word. 

“Hey!” Sasuke yells. “What are you— _don’t run away from me_!”

Sasuke chases after him, completely vexed. Is Itachi seriously trying to take off in the middle of their fight? The fucking _nerve_ —

He chases him through the trees, pushing off branches to keep himself in the air. But Itachi moves _fast_ , and his back is quickly disappearing from sight. It’s all Sasuke can do not to lose him.

He catches up to him in another clearing. Or rather, what _looks_ like a clearing. But it’s obvious from the burned stumps surrounding them that the area didn’t used to be a clearing. It used to be filled with trees.

Whatever that explosion was, it blasted them all away.

Itachi doesn’t react to his arrival. He’s fallen into a fighting stance, his body on high-alert. His Sharingan has finally activated.

Sasuke turns to look at the man Itachi is facing. He’s fairly average. Moderate height, straw-blonde hair, light eyes. There’s nothing remarkable about him in the slightest. He certainly doesn’t seem like the type that an organization like the Akatsuki would be interested in.

 _This is the guy Itachi abandoned me to catch?_ he thinks skeptically. _He sure doesn’t look like anything special…_

Still, he must be stronger than he looks, if Itachi has his Sharingan on.

“Get lost, Sasuke,” Itachi says, not looking at him. “This is Akatsuki business. It doesn’t concern you.”

The dismissive tone causes him to bristle immediately. “Don’t order me around! We were having a fight—"

“And now it is _over_.”

Sasuke draws his sword with a snarl. “ _You_ —!"

Sharp shards of light hurtle towards them. Sasuke swears, throwing his body out of their path. Itachi does the same, managing to make the action look much more graceful.

The glowing shards of light sink sharply into the tree trunks behind them. Sasuke watches as they shimmer and disappear. _What the hell?_

He turns to the nuke-nin that threw the attack. As Sasuke watches, the man brings his fingers together to form a triangle with both hands, much like the Yamanaka's Mind Transfer technique. A bright ball of light forms within them.

“Damn Akatsuki!” the nuke-nin yells. “Rot in _hell_!”

Sasuke throws himself to the ground, and the ball of light passes over his head. The nuke-nin aims the next one at Itachi. He jumps over it, letting it sail harmlessly past him. He lands lightly in the same spot.

“Don't let his jutsu touch you,” he says.

Sasuke grits his teeth, pushing himself off the ground. _What do you care?_ he thinks bitterly.

“Why?” he asks instead. “What does it do?”

“I don’t know.”

Sasuke’s head swivels around to look at him. “What do you mean you _don’t know_?”

“I wasn’t told that information.”

“What? Why the hell _not_?”

Itachi’s expression twitches slightly. “The information was need-to-know.”

He frowns at the words, confused. _Need-to-know? Why wouldn’t they tell him?_

Sasuke observes Itachi’s face closely. The flinty look in his eyes. The annoyed set to his jaw. _Oh_ , he realizes.

Sasuke’s lips curve into a smirk. “They don’t _trust_ you,” he says, a relish in his voice.

Itachi shoots him a warning glare. “ _Sasuke_ —”

The ground erupts a mere inch from where they’re standing. Cursing himself for becoming distracted, Sasuke jumps backward, feeling dirt from the explosion against his face. He lands next to Itachi.

The nuke-nin's ball of light has left a gigantic, smoking crater in the ground. Sasuke stares at it with wide eyes. 

“Shit.”

“Language,” Itachi says.

Sasuke stares at him incredulously, because _is he fucking serious?_

 _Boom_.

Once again, the ground at Sasuke’s feet explodes.

The world _spins_. Colors rush past him in a blur, his eyes stinging. Sharp rocks and fragments of wood cut into his skin. He hits a tree _hard_ , the breath knocked from his body.

Something _snaps_. Sasuke gasps sharply as he hits the ground, and his vision goes black. For a moment, he blacks out, but the sharp pain in his chest pulls him back.

Sasuke coughs on his own blood. He catches his breath, forcing himself to his feet—

“ _Sasuke_!” Itachi yells.

Sasuke whirls around. The world is like a kaleidoscope, and the nuke-nin is pointing a ball of light right at him. There’s a flash of black and red, and a body slams into him—

The world explodes in a blinding flare of light.


	2. Chapter 2

Sasuke finds himself staring up at a blue sky.

Bright, searing light is burned into his eyelids. The ground beneath him is hard, and his ribs feel like there’s a knife between them. Clouds roll by above him.

His head spins. He gets an arm beneath him, struggling to push himself up. Pain rips through his chest and black spots dance in front of his eyes.

He drops back to the ground with a gasp. _What the hell?_

He struggles to break through the fog over his mind, to remember what happened. He can taste a hint of blood in his mouth, and every breath he takes _hurts_ —

“Sasuke!”

There’s someone leaning over him, but their face is blurry. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A glint of metal.

A flash of memory hits him. A familiar voice screaming his name— _“Sasuke!”_ —a bright flare of light—

Memory returns to him in a rush. Sasuke lurches up with a snarl, grabbing the person above him by the collar of their cloak.

“ _You_!”

Itachi grabs his arms as Sasuke attempts to reverse their positions. “Enough—”

Sasuke lets go of his cloak, swinging up at his chin. Itachi’s head moves to the side, and Sasuke’s knuckles barely graze the skin of his cheek. He snarls.

Itachi tightens his grip on Sasuke’s arms, hard enough to bruise. He yanks Sasuke up harshly, pulling him against him. Sasuke gasps at the pain in his chest, his vision flickering.

“ _Enough_ ,” Itachi repeats coldly. His hold on Sasuke is like steel, and the look on his face sends a bolt of fear down Sasuke’s spine. “ _Stop_ trying to hit me.”

Sasuke snarls again, fury clouding his thoughts. He fights in his brother’s hold. “Let go of me!”

“Stop attacking me, and I will.”

Reluctantly, Sasuke stops struggling. His immediate fight response has begun to fade, allowing his mind to start working again. The haze of rage cools.

Itachi lets go of him, stepping back. Sasuke still feels the pressure of his grip against his skin, even now that he’s not touching him.

He looks around him, finally taking in his surroundings. His heart stops. _This is…_

They’re standing in the middle of a street, surrounded by houses. The house in front of them is achingly familiar—familiar yard, familiar porch, familiar windows. There is an unlit lantern hanging near the top of the door, a black and red symbol on it.

An uchiwa—the same symbol that’s embroidered on the back of his shirt. It’s painted everywhere, on the houses and on the walls and on the stands.

Sasuke’s breath catches, standing beneath the sun shining down on them.

It’s the Uchiha District. It’s their _house_.

Sasuke spins on his brother, his hands trembling. “What is this?!” he snarls, and he hates the way his voice shakes. “Some type of genjutsu—"

“This isn’t my doing,” Itachi tells him. His eyes are squinted as he looks at the house. “I don’t know how we got here. Perhaps that man’s jutsu was some type of transportation technique—”

Sasuke struggles to steady his heart rate. How did he get here? He can’t be in Konoha—he was in a completely different country only a few moments ago—

And not just that. Their surroundings feel wrong, somehow. Everything feels bright and warm and lively, and that’s not how the compound is supposed to feel, not anymore. The compound is dark and cold and _quiet_ , a constant sense of death hanging in the air. It’s felt like that ever sense _that night_ , but Sasuke doesn’t feel that now—

Sasuke’s sword is laying on the ground a few feet away. Frowning, Sasuke moves to pick it up. A pain goes through his chest as he bends, and he winces.

“There’s no crack,” Itachi mutters.

Sasuke turns to look at him. “What?”

Itachi is staring at something in the distance, a furrow in his brow. Sasuke follows his gaze, and it takes him a moment to realize what he’s looking at.

On a familiar wall to their left, the Uchiha Clan's symbol is repeatedly painted. Sasuke’s eyes immediately find the symbol Itachi is looking at—the one he once threw a kunai at, when the Police Force accused him of killing Shisui.

( _I’ve had enough. There’s no hope left for this pathetic clan._ )

There’s no crack in the symbol. It’s in perfect condition.

The crack should be there. He knows that crack like the back of his hand, has traced it with his fingers countless times. Remembering that day, Itachi’s words, asking himself _why, why, why._

But there’s no crack. Only smooth, unbroken stone, the perfect image of a paper fan.

Sasuke frowns in confusion, his hand tightening on his sword. _That doesn’t make sense. How—?_

Itachi is staring at the same spot, deep in thought. Then, a look of realization comes over his face. His eyes widen, and then an expression of urgency falls over him. His hand shoots out, grabbing Sasuke’s arm.

“We need to go,” he says. “Sasuke, we need to go, _now_ —”

The front door of their house opens.

A woman steps out the door and onto the porch. She has long black hair and pale skin. She’s humming a tune under her breath, and when she sees them standing in the street, she freezes. Her eyes widen.

The sword slips from Sasuke’s fingers. Beside him, Itachi stares, an identical look of shock on his usually-expressionless face.

“Mom?” Sasuke whispers. 

The woman in front of him is a ghost. A memory that haunts his dreams. The floor falls out from beneath his feet, and he stares at her like a bright beacon of light in the dark.

Mikoto stares at them, her eyes wide. “What—who are you—”

There’s recognition in her eyes. _Disbelieving_ recognition, but it’s there. She knows them. She knows them, even if she doesn’t understand.

Itachi’s eyes are wide and stunned. The hand gripping his arm is shaking. For the first time since they were children, Sasuke can actually read his expression.

He looks the same as Sasuke feels. Like he’s staring at a mirage that is both wonderful and horrible.

“Sasuke?” Mikoto breathes. “Itachi?”

Sasuke walks forward slowly, off the street and onto the lawn. His eyes don’t leave his mother.

“You’re not real,” Sasuke breathes. “You can’t be real.”

_It’s a genjutsu. It has to be a genjutsu…_

Mikoto shakes her head. “How,” she says. “How are you—how can you be—"

Sasuke attempts to move forward. Itachi’s hand closes around his shoulder, holding him in place. His fingers dig painfully into the space beneath his collarbone.

“Mother,” he says. “I understand this must be very shocking. It is to us as well.”

Sasuke turns to look at him. The shock is gone from his face now, replaced by his usual mask of indifference. His voice is level.

Sasuke shakes Itachi’s hand from his shoulder. He wants to turn around and shake him until his composure breaks.

_How can you be so calm? How can you stand there and talk to her like you didn’t bring your sword down on her neck?_

Mikoto shakes her head. “I don’t—I don’t understand—"

“Sasuke and I were hit with a jutsu,” Itachi says. “It was an unknown technique, and neither of us knew anything about it. However, it appears to have transported us through time.”

 _Time travel. Of course,_ Sasuke thinks. Then, a second later: _Wait, time travel?! What?!_

Time travel makes sense—it’s why his mother didn’t immediately recognize him, why she looks so stunned. But time travel _doesn’t_ make sense, because no one has accomplished it before. People have tried. Experiments have been made. It isn’t possible. It _can’t be done._

But there’s no crack in the symbol on the wall. And his dead mother is standing in front of him.

“ _Kai_ ,” Sasuke whispers, just to be sure. He disrupts the flow of his own chakra, closing his eyes and then opening them again.

Nothing changes. The sight in front of him remains the same.

_She's really here. She’s really in front of me._

The ground is unsteady beneath his feet. There’s a tightness in his chest that has nothing to do with his injured rib. He forgets to breathe.

Sasuke takes a stumbling step toward her. “ _Mom_ —"

Itachi makes a move, as if to grab him again. He seems to think better of it, and his hand drops back to his side.

Their mother takes a step as well. When she speaks, her voice shakes.

“You’re… you’re my children?”

“Yes,” Itachi says, in that same level voice. “We are.”

Mikoto stares at Itachi for a long moment, her expression stunned. Then, her gaze drops to Sasuke. Hesitantly, she walks off the porch, stopping when she’s standing in front of him.

“Sasuke,” Mikoto breathes. She stares at him in wonder. “My little Sasuke?”

Sasuke’s throat is too tight to speak. He nods, his eyes stinging. She takes another step closer to him. Slowly, she raises a hand and places it on his cheek.

“My baby,” she says with a smile. “Look how handsome you are.”

Sasuke loses the battle with his tears. A quiet sob escapes his lips. Uncaring of Itachi standing behind him, he steps forward into his mother’s arms. She pulls him in gently.

He remembers her being taller than this, but he’s only an inch shorter than her now. She presses her face into his hair, her hand cupping the back of his head.

“Sasuke,” she says, and her voice is the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. “ _Sasuke_.”

She doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, despite clearly being very confused. She lets him cling to her like a child, tears soaking into her blouse. She holds him even though she barely knows him, even though he’s hardly more than a stranger.

Sasuke buries his face in her shoulder. She smells like lavender—just as he remembers.

“ _Mom_ ,” Sasuke whispers.

Her arms tighten around him. Her hand runs down his back. “I’m here, baby. I’m right here...”

Sasuke glances up for a moment, behind him. Itachi is watching the two of them silently, an indecipherable look on his face.

* * *

Itachi is having an extremely surreal day.

He stands utterly still, silent, as his brother and mother embrace each other. His chest feels tight and constricted, and his hands are shaking beneath the sleeves of his cloak.

They pull away from each other, and Sasuke’s eyes are rimmed with red. Mikoto smiles gently, and Itachi fights to keep his composure.

“We should go inside,” she says. “You both can explain more once we’re sitting down.”

Itachi isn't sure that she’s real. Despite his earlier words, he’s still half-convinced that this is a genjutsu. Or an extremely vivid fever dream.

It’s certainly a more plausible explanation than _time travel._

His mother— _his mother!_ —escorts them inside the house. Itachi’s heart catches as he steps over the threshold, bombarded by a dozen ghosts.

Memory throws its shadow over everything—over the porch, and the doorway, and floorboard that creaks when he steps over it. Every place he looks is a snapshot into a different memory, a different time.

She leads them into the kitchen, and they sit down at the table. Itachi can feel his heart racing in his chest. His mother gives them a shaky smile.

Sasuke is staring at her like a blind man glimpsing the sun. Itachi can hardly stand to look at her.

“Sasuke,” Mikoto says softly, as if saying it out loud will somehow help her better believe it. “Itachi.”

Itachi resists the urge to flinch at his name in her voice. The last time she said it was—

( _We already know, Itachi._ )

Itachi remembers the sword shaking in his hands. Remembers the blood against the blade. His breath catches, and when he looks at her, he sees her crumpled on the floor.

_This isn’t real. It can’t be real._

Itachi pushes against his pinkie finger with his thumb. With a sharp pain and a soft _crack_ , the finger breaks.

Nothing happens. The illusion around him refuses to lift. His mother is still sitting in front of him.

_Not a genjutsu._

Sasuke is the only one close enough to hear his finger break under the table. He gives Itachi a look that translates roughly to _what the fuck are you doing_.

Itachi ignores him. His mind is spinning, unable to process the situation, and it’s only years of practice that keep his emotions from bleeding into his face. His broken finger hurts, which he also ignores.

Eventually, he knows his mind will begin to process. Right now, it’s still stuck on his mother being in front of him.

“I must admit,” Mikoto says, “I’m… at a bit of a loss. It’s not every day that your future children appear in front of your doorstep.”

She attempts to give them a smile, but it’s clear how off-balance she is. Her expression is shaky. Her fingers are trembling.

“We’re as lost as you are,” Itachi assures her, grateful when his voice retains its calm quality. “I assure you, this isn’t something that we planned.”

Beside him, Sasuke scoffs quietly, shooting him a dark glare. Itachi is very much aware that their mother’s presence is the only reason he isn’t attacking.

“Your father is at work right now,” Mikoto tells them. There’s a slight hesitation around the words _your father_ —she clearly finds it strange to refer to him in such a way to them. “But he should be home in a few hours. He’ll be able to help handle this.”

Itachi’s heart stutters at the realization—that his father is _alive_ , only blocks away. One look at Sasuke’s face confirms his thoughts are the same.

Mikoto is looking at him uncertainly. No, at his _forehead_. It takes Itachi a moment to realize that she’s looking at his hitai-ate—at the large slash through the middle.

Itachi experiences a flash of panic. He wants to reach up and take the headband off. He wants to whip it out of sight, taking all evidence of his betrayal with him.

He keeps still instead, his fingers curling into his palms. His broken finger aches sharply.

His mother tears her gaze away from the headband, her face troubled. She doesn’t say anything. Itachi feels shame press against his chest. _What must she think of me?_

All three of them are quiet for a few moments. Neither of them are sure what to say. The sound of footsteps approaching the kitchen disrupts the silence.

“Mother, could I talk—"

The words stop abruptly.

Itachi turns at the voice, and sees… _himself_. Itachi freezes, going utterly still. Next to him, Sasuke has done the same, staring at the young boy in the doorway.

Young Itachi stares at the three of them, his mouth hanging open slightly. Itachi stares back.

His younger self recovers quicker than he does. The child closes his mouth, schooling his expression. Sharp eyes dart between him and Sasuke.

“Who are you?”

Itachi is speechless, unable to respond. Mikoto stands up from her seat, quickly swooping down on the child. She takes him by the shoulders, turning him back toward the door.

“Itachi-kun, go back upstairs, would you? I’ll come explain things to you in a couple minutes.”

Itachi watches, quite speechless, as the miniature version of himself gives them a sharp, suspicious glance, before obeying and turning from the room. Itachi stares as he leaves, his mind struggling.

He’s tempted to break another one of his fingers, because surely this _has_ to be a genjutsu.

Mikoto turns toward Sasuke, her eyes raking him over. “Now, are you alright? You sounded in pain when I hugged you. And you were carrying yourself very carefully.”

Sasuke’s hand moves to press against his ribcage. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“He’s not fine,” Itachi says. “He has a broken rib.”

“It’s _cracked_ ,” Sasuke corrects, “and _fuck you_ , Itachi.”

“ _Language_ ,” Mikoto admonishes, in an eerie echo of Itachi’s earlier words. She stands from her chair. “Stay here. I’ll get you something to ice it with.”

Sasuke opens his mouth to protest, but Itachi halts him by pressing his shoulder against him. _Don’t_ , he attempts to communicate.

Reluctantly, Sasuke stays quiet and lets their mother leave the kitchen. He turns to Itachi as soon as she’s out of sight.

“What the hell is this?” he demands. “What did that guy do?”

Itachi presses his lips together. “I don’t know. I told you, I didn’t know what his jutsu did—”

“It blew up the ground at our feet,” Sasuke snaps. “But when it hits us, it sends us here? How the hell does that work?”

Itachi is just as confused. However, he reminds himself of the role he’s meant to be playing—the role he can go back to, now that their mother isn’t present.

“You keep asking such useless questions. I _just_ told you I don’t know.”

His harsh tone seems to quickly remind Sasuke who he's talking to. The spark of anger immediately returns to his eyes.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he says, his hand tight around his sword.

For a moment, the pure hatred in the voice is enough to nearly catch him off-guard.

(Itachi still isn’t used to it—this boy with fire in his eyes and acid on his tongue, so different from the child he left behind.)

Itachi shoots him an unimpressed look. “What are you going to do, Sasuke? Attempt to kill me right here?”

Sasuke’s jaw tightens. Itachi can see that he’s itching to draw his sword. But he won’t do it. Not with their mother just down the hall.

“Why are you even _here_?” Sasuke snaps. “That light thing hit me, not you.”

A cough builds up in the back of his throat. Itachi fights it back. 

“It hit both of us,” he tells him. “You were being careless, and I was forced to jump in front of you. It’s your own fault that this happened.”

Sasuke glares at him. “Don’t blame me! I never asked you to do that!”

“No. But it’s a good thing I did, or else you could be dead right now.”

“Which would be a real heartbreak to you, I’m sure!”

Itachi locks his jaw, unable to say what he wishes he could. It _would_ be a real heartbreak to him. One that he’s not sure he’d survive. Sasuke is the only thing that matters to him now—Itachi doesn’t think he’d be able to live in a world without him in it.

He remembers shouting Sasuke’s name, the icy fear that filled him. There was no time for him to calculate his actions when he jumped in front of that blast, he had simply reacted instinctively.

And every one of his instincts had shouted to _protect Sasuke_.

Itachi banishes such thoughts, schooling his expression. He looks at his brother coldly.

“Listen,” he says. “This wasn’t part of either of our plans. We need to find a way back. Fighting me now isn’t going to do you any good, so I suggest—”

The sound of footsteps stops him. He turns, expecting his mother, and once again finds himself speechless. His younger self is standing in the doorway, an ice pack in his hand.

Young Itachi steps forward. His eyes flicker over his counterpart. His eyebrows furrow slightly at the slashed headband.

It’s an odd feeling, being studied by yourself. Itachi keeps his face blank. He studies the young child back, looking at him more closely this time. He looks around twelve. Maybe thirteen.

Right around the age when he killed the clan.

 _Wonderful_ , Itachi thinks. _As if this situation isn’t already extremely precarious._

Young Itachi holds the ice pack out to Sasuke. “Here. Mother sent me to give you this.”

Sasuke’s eyes are sharp and narrow. He swipes the ice pack from the child’s hand without touching him. He doesn’t say anything.

Young Itachi looks at the older version of his brother with a slight frown. Itachi knows how observant he was at his age, knows the hostility in Sasuke’s eyes is clear to see.

“Thank you,” Itachi says.

Young Itachi nods curtly. He glances again at the slashed hitai-ate on Itachi’s forehead, before turning his back and leaving the kitchen.

Sasuke watches him go, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. There’s a hatred in his gaze, but something deeper as well. There’s _intent_ in his eyes—an intent to _kill_.

Itachi feels a spark of panic ignite when he realizes this. _No. No, he doesn’t know what that will do. He doesn’t know anything—_

Itachi needs to get them out of here. He needs to get them _back_.

Before Sasuke ruins everything by trying to fix it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shouldn't have taken so long, since the story is already finished. All I had to do was go through the chapter and edit it. The next update will come much quicker to make up for it, promise.

Mikoto escapes from the kitchen the first chance she gets. She leans her head against the wall of the stairwell, closing her eyes.

Her _children_. From the _future_.

She can still feel the arms locked around her waist. The tears soaking into her blouse. Her head spins.

She _knows_ they’re her children. She knew it the moment she looked at them, in a way she couldn’t explain. Their eyes connected, and her soul recognized theirs. Her heart called out to them, and she opened her arms.

_My children._

She can’t explain it. She doesn’t know how it can be possible. But the shaking boy she pulled to her chest fit inside her arms perfectly. Over a foot taller, he still settled against her like _Sasuke_.

And Itachi… her eldest is near impossible to read most days, but she knows the way he moves. She knows the way he _breathes_.

She knows her children. Any version of them.

She recognizes these two strangers as her sons. This young man with the slashed hitai-ate and the cold expression; this young teenager with the sharp edges and the broken eyes. Both of them are built from glass, so different from the children she knows—

But _gods_ , the both of them are _beautiful_.

A small laugh escapes her lips, and there’s a tinge of hysteria to it. She bends over slightly, her hands against her knees.

_Unbelievable. This is all unbelievable._

“Mother?”

Mikoto looks up. Itachi— _her_ Itachi—is standing near the end of the hallway. He draws closer to her, his face slightly creased in concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks 

Mikoto pushes herself back up. “I’m fine, sweetie.”

He probably doesn’t believe her. But because it’s Itachi, he doesn’t press.

“Did you give them the ice pack I gave you?” she asks.

He nods. She can’t read his face—she rarely ever can, not unless he wants her to.

“It’s time travel, isn’t it? They’re me and Sasuke.”

Mikoto isn’t surprised he knows. If she recognized them at a glance, then of course her genius son figured it out just as fast.

“Yes. It’s time travel.”

“How?”

Mikoto sighs. “I don’t know. _They_ don’t seem to know. This whole thing is—it’s crazy. Hopefully once your father gets home, we can begin to make sense of it.”

Itachi nods again. He’s handling this incredibly well—much better than she is. She can’t help but feel slightly inadequate in her role as a parent, as she stands here freaking out while he’s perfectly put together.

But that’s always been Itachi. It saddens her sometimes, how little he seems to need her. He never lets her be a mother.

“Should we inform the Hokage?” he asks.

Mikoto balks immediately at the suggestion. “ _No_.”

They _can’t_ involve the Hokage—not with everything currently going on. It’s too risky, and Fugaku would have a conniption.

“We’ll wait until your father gets home,” she tells him, softening her voice. “We can talk about what to do then.”

Itachi’s eyes seem slightly harder at the words. Closer to the eyes of his future counterpart. But he doesn’t protest.

“What should we do in the meantime?”

“Your brother will be getting out of school,” she says. “You could go pick him up if you want? I’ll handle things here.”

Itachi frowns. “Sasuke can walk home himself. He does it all the time.”

“Yes, but he likes it when you pick him up. You’ve been so busy lately. He misses you.”

A flash of guilt passes quickly through Itachi’s eyes. Though he still looks reluctant to leave the house, he acquiesces.

“I’ll go get him now. Are you going to tell him?”

Mikoto bites her lip. Tell her seven-year-old child that his future self is sitting in their kitchen? She isn’t sure that’s the best idea.

“That’ll be something else to decide once your father gets home,” she says.

“He’s not stupid. If you don’t tell him, he’ll figure it out. You can’t keep hiding things from him.”

The comment doesn’t sound very pointed. But coming from Itachi, who is extremely careful with every inflection he puts into his words, it’s the equivalent of a battering ram.

“Itachi,” Mikoto says warningly. “Don’t start with this again.”

Though he’s never said anything about it directly, her son's passive-aggressive comments have made his disapproval of the Uchiha's plans very clear. Fugaku doesn’t seem to have noticed—or perhaps he is choosing to remain willfully ignorant.

Mikoto stands with her husband. She is ready to fight for her clan—and possibly die. But she disagrees with the decision to involve Itachi.

_He’s too young. He shouldn’t have to bear such weight on his shoulders._

Itachi’s jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. Mikoto sighs quietly, reaching out to brush the back of her hand against his cheek. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“Just go pick up your brother,” she says softly. “Please.”

He looks at her silently, with eyes identical to her own. After a moment, he drops his chin.

“I’ll be back,” he says.

Mikoto stares at the paper fan on his back as he turns the corner, her bottom lip held between her teeth. She wonders when her own son started to become a stranger to her.

She ventures back into the kitchen, where the two time-travelers are still sitting at the table. Laying eyes on them again steals her breath. They’re so identical to her current children… yet, at the same time, so utterly changed.

The _anger_ in Sasuke’s eyes when he looks at Itachi—that’s definitely new. As is the harsh way his fingers are twisted into the collar of his cloak. _Her_ Sasuke has certainly never looked at Itachi like that—as if he’s imagining him set on fire.

She wonders if they’re having a fight. It’s strange for her to imagine, since her seven-year-old absolutely _adores_ Itachi, but it’s only natural for siblings to argue.

Sasuke releases Itachi’s cloak the moment she reenters the room, the anger wiped from his expression. “Mother.”

Mikoto’s eyes fall to the ice pack on the table in front of him, and she looks at him in disapproval. “I gave that to you to help you, not for you to sit there and watch it melt.”

A sheepish expression crosses his face. “Sorry,” he says, picking it up.

“I hope your rib isn’t injured too bad. If there’s anything else I can do…”

Sasuke shakes his head. “This is enough. Thank you… Mom.”

The word sounds unfamiliar on his tongue. He’s staring at her like he’s drinking in the sun. Mikoto tries not to read too much into it.

( _Mom_ , the boy whispered, wrapped in her arms. Brokenly, in pieces, as if the world were held in that one word.)

In contrast, Itachi doesn’t look her directly in the eyes at all. His gaze is slightly to the left as he asks, “When is Father due to be back?”

Despite his likeness to her current son, it’s still incredibly strange to hear him refer to Fugaku in such a way. The same way it’s strange for her to think of the two of them as _Itachi_ and _Sasuke_.

“It's mid-afternoon now,” she tells him. “Your father should be off work in a couple more hours, provided nothing keeps him longer. Itachi-kun just left to pick Sasuke up from school.”

Sasuke twitches slightly at the last sentence. His fingers scrape against the surface of the table.

Mikoto looks between the two of them and doesn’t know what to say. There’s so much that she doesn’t understand—so many questions held just behind her lips.

She wants to ask why Itachi is wearing the hitai-ate of a missing-nin. She wants to ask why Sasuke fell into her arms sobbing the moment he saw her, why he’s staring at her like a ghost.

She wants to ask, but she doesn’t. She’s too afraid to hear the answers.

Instead, she turns to look at her youngest. “So. Since we’re waiting for your father, answer me this…”

Her eyes move over him, taking in his outfit. A white, long-sleeved shirt, open at the torso and exposing his chest. Black arm guards. A dark blue cloth wrapped around his waist, secured by a purple rope.

“…what in the world are you _wearing_ , young man?”

Itachi isn’t quite quick enough in smothering his laugh. Sasuke kicks him sharply under the table.

* * *

Fugaku returns home from Police Headquarters early, which is a surprise. He usually has a habit of working too late.

“Did something happen?” Mikoto asks him. He didn’t greet her when he came in the door, and the look on his face is rather disgruntled as he pulls off his boots.

“The Hokage,” he says, his scowl deepening, “came to speak with me today. He wanted to discuss the Uchiha’s position in the village.”

Mikoto frowns. “Position in the village? What do you mean?”

“The compound,” he says with a huff, struggling to get out of his jacket. “He started talking about how it was too isolated from everyone else. He even brought up possibly _relocating_ …”

Mikoto blinks in surprise at the words, but then she smiles hopefully. She takes his jacket from him, hanging it on the wall.

“But Fugaku, this is a good thing, isn’t it? Perhaps he’s finally wanting to fix things—"

“Now? After all this time?” He shakes his head. “No. The timing is too suspicious.”

A tingle of fear goes up her spine. “You think he knows something.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, yes.”

She bites her lip. The idea that the Sandaime might have gotten word of the Uchiha’s plans is extremely troubling. How could it have happened? All of them have been so careful…

Now, with everything going on… it really is the worst time for a sudden and mysterious case of _time travel._

Fugaku’s shoulders are tense and his eyes are tired. Mikoto really hates to complicate his day any further, but she has no choice.

She leans forward and wraps her arms around his neck. “It will be okay,” she tells him softly. “If he really knew something, we would know.”

In her embrace, Fugaku slowly relaxes. His shoulders drop, his body curving into hers.

“I hope you’re right,” he says. He pulls away from her. “Where’s Itachi? Wasn’t he due home from his mission today?”

“Yes, he returned this morning. He’s picking up Sasuke from the Academy.”

Fugaku hums in acknowledgement. He unclips the belt that holds his sword, hanging it beside his jacket. Before he can step deeper into the house, Mikoto wraps her fingers around his elbow.

“Wait,” she tells him. “Something happened while you were gone. I had just stepped outside to go to the market…”

Fugaku listens as she explains. To his credit, he does not interrupt her as she speaks, though his face cycles through a myriad of emotions. He waits until she has fully finished the tale before opening his mouth.

“These two… _time-travelers_. How can you be so sure they are who they say?”

Mikoto knew Fugaku would be skeptical—she knows how fantastical the story sounds. And for it to happen _now_ , so close to their plans? She can read the disbelief on his face.

She takes his hands in hers, squeezing them. “I know how crazy it sounds. But it’s _them_ , Fugaku. I can just… I can _feel_ it.”

“You can _feel_ it?” Fugaku shakes his head, pulling his hands back. “You can’t base something like this on a _feeling_ , Mikoto. Did you even ask for any proof? This could easily be a trick—”

“If it’s a trick, then it’s a pretty stupid one. Who in the world would believe it?”

“ _You_ , apparently.”

Mikoto glares at her husband for his tone. “Don’t speak to me as if I’m a fool. I know when I’m being duped. It’s the _truth_. They look _just like them_ , only a bit older—”

“Fine,” Fugaku says. He crosses his arms across his chest, his eyes still very skeptical. “Take me to them, then. Let me make my own judgment.”

* * *

Somehow, Sasuke managed to forget how _small_ his father could make him feel.

Sitting beneath the man's hard gaze, he’s quick to remember. He feels like a seven-year-old all over again, being appraised and then found wanting. Fugaku’s eyes are cold, his face expressionless. 

_So that’s where Itachi gets it_ , Sasuke realizes.

He throws a glance at his older brother. Sure enough, Itachi is wearing an identical blank expression.

“Mikoto has taken you at your word that you are who you say,” Fugaku says. “However, I will not be so easily taken in.”

Slightly behind him, Mikoto throws her husband an unpleasant look.

Sasuke fights not to cringe away from the man in front of him, even as another, even stronger part of him fights not to throw his arms around him. His chest is tight with emotion.

_Father…_

He can’t look at him without remembering what it was like to lay on that wood floor. Forcing his head up, only to find himself staring into his dead eyes…

Sasuke grinds his teeth. He doesn’t understand how Itachi can be so unaffected. He wants his brother to feel it, too.

_You killed him—killed both of them. Don’t you feel anything at all?_

Of course he doesn’t. Psychopaths aren’t capable of silly things like _feelings_.

“If you are really my children,” Fugaku says, “then I expect you to prove it.”

Sasuke scowls. “We _are_. What exactly do you expect—”

Itachi sits up straighter in his chair, looking their father directly in the eyes. He activates his Sharingan, black bleeding into a frightening red.

“There,” he says. “Satisfied?”

Fugaku is only surprised for a fraction of a second. He recovers himself quickly, crossing his arms across his chest.

“That only proves you’re an Uchiha. That doesn’t prove that you’re my son.”

Itachi hesitates a moment. Then, the three tomoe in his eyes twist together, becoming the shape of a curved shuriken.

Sasuke’s breath catches. _A sword slicing sharply down—blood splashing through the air—_

“Mangekyou,” Fugaku breathes, and Sasuke flinches.

( _Foolish little brother…_ )

Itachi glances at him. Sasuke doesn’t know what expression his face is making, but his sudden distress must be visible somehow, because Itachi immediately deactivates his Sharingan. His eyes return to black.

Sasuke’s hands shake beneath the table. He fights to calm his racing heart.

 _Weak_ , the voice in his head whispers.

There is a deep sadness in Mikoto’s eyes. She sinks into the chair across from Itachi, reaching out. Sasuke experiences a burst of panic, and he curls his fingers into his palm to stop himself from slapping her hand away.

Her fingers brush Itachi’s face, just under his eye. Itachi flinches slightly at the touch.

“How did you get that?” she whispers.

Itachi is still as a statue. And for the first time since they arrived, he _does_ look affected. His eyes are locked on her face—

Loud footsteps come from the hall, bursting into the kitchen. Itachi’s expression goes blank immediately, like shutters slamming shut behind his eyes.

Sasuke turns his head—and experiences a wave of vertigo when he sees the tiny version of himself standing only feet away.

_This can’t be happening._

“Wow,” Little Sasuke says, staring at him in wonder. “Nii-san, I’m _taller_ than you.”

Thirteen-year-old Itachi is standing at the child’s side. He reaches down to pull fondly at the end of the boy's hair. “In your _dreams_.”

“I bet I’m stronger than you, too.”

“Once again, _in your dreams_.”

Sasuke’s chest is doing strange things watching them. He feels like someone’s wrapped wire-string around his lungs, and now they’re pulling, pulling, _pulling_ —

“Itachi!” Mikoto says sharply. Beside him, Itachi twitches slightly. “You _told_ him!?”

Young Itachi shrugs. “Sorry.”

(He doesn’t look very sorry.)

Mikoto sighs. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” she says. “Still, I really wish you hadn’t.”

Young Itachi doesn’t respond, his gaze sliding past his mother, toward his future counterpart. Kid Sasuke is openly gazing at Sasuke as well, which Sasuke finds extremely disconcerting.

Fugaku doesn’t look pleased as he gazes down at the younger version of his eldest. “What took you so long? Your mother told me you left over an hour ago.”

“I wanted to stay and train for a bit,” Little Sasuke answers for him, clinging to his older brother's hand. “And Nii-san made us stop for dango.”

“Itachi!” Mikoto yells a second time. “What did I tell you about eating sweets before dinner! You’ll ruin your appetite!”

Young Itachi shoots his little brother a betrayed look.

 _Traitor_ , he mouths. The seven-year-old sticks his tongue out at him.

Sasuke’s heart hurts.

“It was really disgusting,” Little Sasuke continues, wrinkling his nose. “I told him his teeth will rot, and then all of them will fall out, but he didn’t listen to me.”

The child turns immediately after finishing the sentence, looking at Sasuke and tilting his head.

“Are you _really_ me?” the seven-year-old asks.

Sasuke opens his mouth, then closes it. He can’t speak.

“And why are you wearing that outfit?”

Itachi ducks his head, but not before Sasuke catches the smile pulling at his lips.

 _Asshole_ , he thinks viciously.

* * *

Dinner is an extremely strange affair. He sits next to Itachi, his hand white around his utensil. Sometimes, their elbows will brush, and Sasuke has to resist the urge to drive his fork into the back of his brother’s hand.

“And this jutsu that brought you here,” Fugaku says. “You say you have no idea how it works?”

“None,” Itachi says. “Though from the look of it, it might not have even been a jutsu. I suspect it might have been a kekkai genkai.”

Fugaku raises an eyebrow. “A bloodline limit? That’s interesting.”

Sasuke’s gaze slides away from them, to the right. The younger versions of Sasuke and Itachi are sitting at the table, as well. Young Itachi is listening closely to the conversation. Young Sasuke seems to be attempting to listen, but it’s clear he doesn’t really understand. He gives up, turning to Sasuke.

“So,” Little Sasuke says eagerly. “Why aren’t you wearing a headband? You _have_ graduated, right? Are you a chuunin yet? Are you stronger than Nii-san?”

Sasuke blinks, torn from his fantasy of running thirteen-year-old Itachi through with Chidori. He shakes the image from his mind.

“Um…”

Young Itachi reaches out before Sasuke can answer, pulling on the child’s hair. “Don’t ask so many questions, Sasuke-chan. And chew with your mouth closed.”

Little Sasuke makes an offended face. “ _Sasuke-chan_?” he repeats. “Don’t call me that! I’m not a girl!”

“But there’s two of you now,” Young Itachi points out in a reasonable tone. “We have to call you something to tell you guys apart.”

“How come _I'm_ the one who has to have a different name? I was Sasuke first!”

“Actually, I’m fairly certain you were both Sasuke first.”

Little Sasuke huffs, his bottom lip poking out. “Yeah, but—but—"

Young Itachi pokes the child on the forehead. “Shush. Eat your dinner, Sasuke-chan.”

“ _Nii-san_!”

Sasuke watches the pair of brothers interact, and memory feels like poison in his heart. Young Itachi is smiling, his face kind and loving and everything an older brother should be,, and Little Sasuke is gazing up at him like he’s the reason the sun rises each morning—

And Sasuke _remembers_. He remembers this Itachi—the kind, gentle brother who he adored so much. Before he changed, before he snapped, before he became someone Sasuke didn’t recognize. The Itachi that he loved, who loved him in return—

 _No_ , Sasuke reminds himself. _That isn’t Itachi. That was never Itachi._

His hand tightens around his fork, as he stares at the kind smile Young Itachi is wearing. It’s _fake_ , all of it is _fake_. Itachi didn’t change, didn’t become a monster. He always was one, right from the start. The thirteen-year-old sitting across from him isn’t real; every part of him is pretend.

( _I have acted like the older brother you desire for one purpose…_ )

Itachi was never the kind brother Sasuke thought he was. He was always a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Waiting for the time to strike. Waiting to cut his family down. Waiting for the moment he could rip the mask off, and shatter his little brother’s world.

_People don’t change. They only stand more revealed._

Sasuke stares at the thirteen-year-old in front of him, smiling at his seven-year-old brother, and he’s hit with a wave of hatred so strong that it nearly swallows him.

 _I’m going to kill you_ , he thinks, his nails digging into his palm. _I’ll stop you. I won’t let you hurt them this time._

Little Sasuke turns from his own brother, turning to the nineteen-year-old version of him.

“Um,” he says uncertainly. “Nii… san…?”

Itachi sets his fork down. “You can call me Itachi,” he tells him. “If that makes it less confusing.”

Little Sasuke makes a slight face. “ _Itachi_ ,” he says hesitantly, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.

Sasuke remembers he rarely called Itachi by his actual name at that age. He considered it to be disrespectful.

“Itachi,” the child repeats, firmer this time. His gaze flickers down to Itachi’s hand. “Why are you wearing nail polish?”

The question is payback for the times Sasuke was asked about his outfit. But Sasuke’s so angry, he can’t even make his lips twitch.

Itachi isn’t fazed by the question. He lifts up his hand, displaying his purple fingernails. “This? I’m on an undercover assignment right now. The organization has certain wardrobe choices I have to abide by.”

“Oh,” Little Sasuke says, accepting the lie easily. “Is that also why your headband is scratched?”

Itachi smiles. “Yes, that’s exactly why. You’re pretty sharp, Sasuke.”

Little Sasuke flushes from the praise. Itachi is wearing his brotherly smile now, the one he hasn’t worn since before the massacre. Sasuke wants more than anything to punch it off his face.

Everyone at the table seems to accept Itachi’s lie about his hitai-ate. Everyone except Young Itachi, who watches his future counterpart with sharp eyes.

“Well,” Fugaku says. “Starting tomorrow, we can all help in finding a way back to your time. Itachi, when is your next mission?”

“Not for a few more days,” Young Itachi answers.

“Good,” Mikoto says with a smile. “And why don’t you room with Sasuke-kun for the night? Our guests can take your room.”

Little Sasuke grins excitedly. Sasuke has the opposite reaction.

_Sleep in the same room as Itachi? Yeah right! What’s to stop him from killing me in my sleep?_

Itachi doesn’t seem to have an issue with this. He inclines his head. “Thank you.”

Mikito smiles at her future murderer. “Of course. It’s no trouble at all.”

* * *

Itachi slams him against the wall the moment they get upstairs.

“I know what you’re planning,” he says. “And don’t even _think_ about it.”

Itachi’s hands are twisted in his shirt. Sasuke feels pinned beneath his gaze.

“Get _off_ ,” he snarls, pushing his brother off of him. Itachi doesn’t resist, letting go willingly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I saw that look in your eyes,” Itachi says. “I know what you’re planning. It’s rather predictable, actually. Kill the younger version of me, you save the clan, right?”

Sasuke glares. Itachi shakes his head, his jaw clenching.

“Don’t be _stupid_ , otouto. You don’t know what you’re _doing_.”

“I’m _saving_ them!” Sasuke snarls. “I won’t stand here and watch you _butcher_ them again!”

“No. You won’t. Because we’ll both get back before that happens.”

Itachi’s impassive tone only fuels the fire in his blood. His hands shake.

“You _disgust_ me,” he says. “Didn’t you see the way Mom was looking at you down there? The way _I_ was looking at you? They _love_ you. How can you feel nothing for them? How can you just _kill_ them? _To test your abilities_ —"

Sasuke’s head slams into the wall. Itachi’s hand is suddenly around his throat. It’s just like that day in the hallway, and Itachi’s fingers are pressing against his pulse point, and he _can’t fucking breathe_ —

Sasuke gasps. Itachi’s eyes are like ice.

“None of this matters to me,” he says lowly. “ _None of it._ ”

He releases Sasuke’s neck with a flick of his wrist. Sasuke falls to the floor with a gasp, coughing as air floods back in. His hand goes to his throat.

“My only concern is getting back where we belong,” Itachi says harshly. “Don’t screw that up. Now go to sleep. You can have the bed.”

He spins around, his cloak swishing. He slides down the wall across from the bed, bending his knees and resting there.

Sasuke pushes himself up, still coughing. He fights to calm his intense fear, his heart racing a mile a minute. His hands are trembling.

Sasuke doesn’t take the bed. Instead, he slides down the wall that is the exact opposite of Itachi, in an identical position. He keeps his eyes locked on his brother. He isn’t going to let his eyes close for a single second.

They stay like that for the entire night, not moving, not speaking. Occasionally, the silence of the room is broken by a muffled cough.

Neither of them sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it can be a bit difficult to refer to two pairs of Sasuke and Itachi in the same scene. If at any point it gets confusing which one I'm referring to (the older or the younger), please tell me, and I'll edit it to make it more clear.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no excuses for how long this took :( especially since i promised i would be quicker at updating in the last chapter.

When Sasuke comes downstairs the next morning, there are faint bruises forming around his throat.

Itachi is helping his mother wash the dishes from yesterday evening. He’s washing and she’s drying. Their hands brush when he passes her a dish, and it feels like an electrical wire against his skin.

He avoids looking at her. There’s a persistent itch in the back of his throat that he’s been fighting down for five minutes now.

“Did you sleep well?” Mikoto asks him. “You look tired.”

“I slept alright. My mind was preoccupied is all.”

Itachi coughs as soon as the words are finished leaving his lips, bringing up his hand to cover his mouth. It’s a harsh, grating sound that scrapes painfully at his throat, and it causes his mother to look at him in alarm.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” Itachi says, and he gives her a convincing smile.

There’s blood on his hand. He washes it away in the water before she sees it.

 _That’s worrying,_ he thinks, attempting to ignore the coppery taste in his mouth. _It’s only been two days._

The plate that he’s holding blurs slightly, and there’s a dull ache in his chest. He blinks to refocus his horrid vision, not pausing as he washes, handing the dish off to his mother to dry.

Of all the times to forget his medicine. What a foolish, _amateur_ mistake.

That’s when Sasuke shuffles down the stairs. Itachi senses his chakra a moment before he actually sees him, and he turns to look at the doorway.

The bruising is barely visible, but it’s there. Red indents like fingerprints against his pale neck.

Itachi’s fingers still on the glass in his hands. He shoves away the rush of guilt, forcing his eyes away from the marks.

“Sasuke,” Mikoto says with a smile. “Good morning.”

She doesn’t notice the faint bruising. Itachi only sees it because he knows that it’s there.

Sasuke’s eyes are sharp on Itachi before they snap to his mother. He forces a smile as he moves to the table. “Morning.”

“You look almost as bad as your brother,” she says, looking at the circles under his eyes in disapproval. “Did _either_ of you sleep last night?”

Sasuke shrugs. Mikoto sighs.

“Where’s Father?” Sasuke asks.

“He left for work about an hour ago,” Itachi says. “But he said he’d be back early to help us figure out our situation.”

Sasuke narrows his eyes at him. “I wasn’t asking _you_.”

Itachi presses his lips together. He admits that he deserves that—but does Sasuke really have to take that tone in front of their mother?

Mikoto looks between them in concern. But whatever words she yearns to say, she holds them behind her teeth. It’s quite unlike her to not speak her mind.

Perhaps she doesn’t feel she has a right to. They aren’t _her_ children, after all.

“Sasuke,” she says, eyeing the rope around his waist. “Would you like a change of clothes for the day? I can wash that for you. Itachi-kun won’t mind if you borrow something from his closet.”

Sasuke frowns and doesn’t respond. He’s probably trying to decide which option is more horrible: having to wear the clothes of his clan's murderer, or enduring more teasing regarding his outfit.

“Thank you,” Sasuke says. “I would appreciate that.”

Itachi rinses off the last dish, handing it to his mother and switching off the faucet. She turns to him, their hands brushing.

“We’ll get you something to wear, as well. I’m sure your father has something, though it might be a bit big on you. We can always ask Shisui. You two are around the same age, aren’t you?”

Itachi’s heart stutters at the name. _A body tipping back over a ledge—_

“I’m nineteen,” he tells her, once he remembers how his vocal cords work.

Mikoto looks at him with shining eyes. “ _Nineteen_! You’re so grown up.”

Alarmingly, Itachi feels the threat of tears. He shoves his emotions down as far as they can go, pushing them into a box and padlocking it closed.

“It’s hardly that old, Mother. I’m not even old enough to drink.”

Mikoto lightly scoffs. “I’ve always thought that’s a stupid law. You’re old enough to kill, but not to have a glass of alcohol?”

Itachi’s lips twitch.

There’s a sharp _snap_ that cuts through the air. Itachi's head whips around. Sasuke is sitting with his fingers laced in front of him. His jaw is clenched, his shoulders tight.

“Sorry,” he says through gritted teeth, and the word comes out like he’s choking on gravel.

Itachi doesn’t realize what he’s talking about, but Mikoto is already bending down in front of him, taking one of his hands gently in hers.

“What would you do _that_ for?” she asks, her voice full of alarm.

Sasuke’s thumb is at an odd angle, and it finally clicks. _He broke his thumb. Why?_

Itachi glances at his brother, trying to read him. But his long bangs are shadowing his face.

“Sorry,” Sasuke repeats. “I didn’t mean to.”

Mikoto’s palms glow green with chakra. It’s nothing fancy, just first-level medical ninjutsu. She snaps his thumb back into place, and he winces slightly.

She lowers her hands, the glow fading. “Good as new. You have to stop injuring yourself, Sasuke-kun.”

Sasuke scowls. “The first time wasn’t my fault.”

“Debatable,” Itachi says.

Sasuke flashes his Sharingan at him. Mikoto’s eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn’t comment on it.

“I’ll go see about finding you two some clothes,” she says, standing up. She looks to her younger son. “Try not to break anything else before I get back, alright?”

Itachi’s mouth twitches. Mikoto exits the kitchen before Sasuke can respond.

“Fuck _off_ ,” he says, as soon as she’s out of earshot.

Itachi arches an eyebrow. Absently, he wonders where his little brother developed such a foul mouth. Probably the Sound.

“What did you break your thumb for?” he asks. “I think it’s fairly clear by now that this isn’t a genjutsu.”

“I know that,” Sasuke snaps. “That wasn’t what I was trying to do.”

“Then what?”

Sasuke’s jaw tightens. He looks away sharply, his fists clenching and unclenching on the table.

“You have no right to talk to her like that,” he says finally, his voice shaking. “You have no right to stand there and _smile_ at her, as if—as if—”

Realization hits him. Sasuke didn’t mean to injure himself—he was biting down on his anger.

Itachi forces his lips into a mocking smile, even as a kunai slides up between his ribs and _twists_. “Why can’t I? She’s my mother too, is she not?”

“ _No_ ,” Sasuke snarls, and there’s a fire in his eyes. “She _isn’t_. You don’t get to call yourself her son. You _lost_ that right.”

The kunai plunges even deeper. Itachi doesn’t flinch.

“Do at least try to keep your temper around her,” he says. “Your feelings toward me are glaringly obvious, and she isn’t blind.”

“Maybe I’ll just tell her the truth, then.”

Itachi masks the slight burst of panic he feels at the possibility. His brother is bluffing—he _thinks_ his brother is bluffing—but if there’s even a slightest chance he isn’t…

“Go ahead,” he says, with a calmness that he doesn’t feel. “If you’re so sure she’ll believe you, that is. After all, we both know which of us is the favored child.”

Sasuke’s flinch is impossible to miss. Itachi knows exactly where to strike to make it hurt.

His little brother is changed from how he used to be. He’s confident, bordering on arrogant. But that arrogance is a façade, masking the same insecurity he held as a child.

Fear that he will never be _enough_. That he will never be _Itachi_.

Itachi was the one who used to soothe those fears. He hates that he’s now using them to cut.

( _You’re not even worth killing._ )

Sasuke turns his face away. His hands are shaking on the table, and he moves them to his lap.

There’s another itch in his chest, a tinge of something metallic in his throat. Itachi tries to force it down, but a sharp pain goes through him.

Itachi coughs again, the sound harsh. Sasuke looks at him, his lips twisting.

“The fuck is up with you?”

“Nothing,” Itachi says, resisting the impulse to reprimand him for his language.

“You were coughing all night.”

“It’s _nothing_.”

“Well, get your ‘ _nothing_ ' away from me. I don’t want to catch it.”

Itachi rolls his eyes, turning away from him. “Trust me. You won't.”

He walks from the kitchen into the sitting room. Behind him, he hears Sasuke snort quietly, muttering the words ‘ _trust me_ ’ sardonically under his breath.

Itachi ignores the pang in his heart. Sasuke doesn’t follow him from the kitchen, which he’s grateful for.

He walks across the room with soft footsteps. He feels like he’s caught in a dream. Here is the place where he grew up. Here is the place where he waited for his father to get home to teach him a new jutsu.

Something brushes against his ankles. Itachi startles, but then realizes it’s only their cat.

He leans down, holding his hand out. The small creature sniffs him before seeming to recognize him as someone familiar. She rubs her head against his hand.

Itachi struggles to remember her name. It’s only been six years, and he’s distressed to find he’s forgotten it.

_What else have I forgotten since then?_

Itachi stands back up, the cat rubbing against his leg as it stalks off. He steps up to the mantel of the fireplace, staring at one of the picture frames displayed there. He lifts his hand to brush his fingers against the glass.

“I remember forcing your father to stand for that picture.”

Itachi turns as his mother enters the room, a soft smile on her lips. He saw her only a few moments ago, and still, the sight of her steals his breath.

“He wanted to skip out, but I forced him.” She walks up to stand next to him, admiring the photograph. “It turned out well, I think. Though it wouldn’t have killed him to smile a bit more.”

It’s a picture of the four of them, their parents in the back. Fugaku has a hand on Itachi’s shoulder, and Sasuke is grinning, clinging to Itachi’s arm.

Itachi can’t be any older than ten in the photo. Sasuke is five.

A dull pain shoots through his chest. This time, it has nothing to do with his illness.

Mikoto watches him with deep eyes. She reaches out to him, just like yesterday. Itachi doesn’t flinch this time, but the brush of her fingers beneath his eye still makes his heart stutter.

“You never answered me yesterday. How did you get it? The Mangekyou?”

Itachi thinks of the edge of a cliff. A body tipping back—

He takes her hand in his, lowering it. “It’s probably best I don’t answer that. I’m unsure of how this all works, but you probably shouldn’t know too much.”

Mikoto sighs. Her eyes fall over him, lingering on his slashed hitai-ate.

“I assume this also applies to the undercover mission you’re currently on? It sounds dangerous.”

“No more than any other mission.”

She hums, reaching up to gently trace the line going through the Leaf symbol. Itachi struggles not to flinch.

_She’s so close…_

“What type of organization requires you to paint your fingernails, anyway?”

Itachi’s mouth twitches. “An eccentric one.”

Though in his case, the heavy polish serves a secondary purpose—it helps hide the signs of sickness in his nails.

Mikoto smiles, letting her hand drop. There’s a slight sadness to her expression now.

“I don’t know how this is possible,” she says. “But I’m glad I’m getting the chance to see you so grown up. Especially since it seems like I won’t get to in the future.”

Itachi frowns, stepping back. “What do you—"

There’s a knock on the front door, then the sound of it opening. Itachi and Mikoto turn toward the entry of the parlor as footsteps are heard.

“Hey, Mikoto-san! I let myself in, hope you don’t mind—"

There’s a ghost standing in the doorway. There’s a ghost standing in the doorway, and after seeing his dead parents, Itachi really should be used to this, but he _isn’t_ —

Shisui is staring at him, one hand on the doorframe, his mouth half open.

Itachi can’t _breathe_.

“Shisui,” Mikoto says, her expression tense. “We’ve talked about this. The _doorbell_.”

Shisui blinks, his gaze pulled briefly from Itachi’s. The nineteen-year-old struggles to breathe around the kunai lodged in his chest.

“Either I’m hallucinating,” Shisui says slowly, “or there’s a future version of Itachi standing in your living room. Which one is it?”

Mikoto’s fondness for Shisui is clearly the only thing saving him at the moment. If it had been anyone else to come through that door, they would have been booted immediately.

Mikoto exchanges a look with Itachi. She sighs.

“It’s the second one,” she says. “But Shisui, you can’t tell _anyone_ —”

“ _Cool_ ,” Shisui says, seemingly taking this revelation in stride. He glances Itachi over. “You got hot.”

Itachi arches an eyebrow at him silently.

“Is that weird to say? I meant it completely platonically.”

Against his will, Itachi finds his lips twitching into a smile.

“What are you doing here?” Mikoto asks him, also smiling.

“I was looking for Itachi. The current one, obviously.”

“I’m afraid he’s busy with his ANBU duties today.”

“Oh.” Shisui’s gaze slides to Itachi. “Well, if that Itachi’s busy, then how about I just take this one?”

Itachi balks at the suggestion. “ _No_.”

Shisui pouts. “Itachi-kun, I’m offended. You don’t want to spend time with me?”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea for—"

That’s when Sasuke enters the room from the opposite side of Shisui. Itachi falls silent as Sasuke stares with wide eyes.

“ _Shisui-san_?”

Shisui blinks at the teenager a couple times before recognition seems to dawn on him. “Wow. _Sasuke-chan_?”

Sasuke is so stunned that he doesn’t even react to the childish honorific.

“Look at you! So you came with Itachi-kun, huh? I should’ve guessed.”

Sasuke stares at him blankly. He turns to their mother, a question in his eyes.

“He just got here,” Mikoto tells him. “He thought he might spend some time with your brother.”

Just like Itachi, Sasuke immediately balks at the suggestion, though for completely different reasons. “ _No_.”

Shisui smiles, and it makes Itachi ache. “Don’t worry. I won’t take him away from you for too long.”

Shisui and Sasuke were never very close. But Sasuke always liked him well enough—whenever he wasn’t stealing Itachi away, that was.

Itachi remembers the way he used to pout. _You like Shisui-san more than me, don’t you Nii-san?_

Sasuke’s eyes are cold now. Like ice. Itachi doesn’t recognize him like this. During their encounter at the inn, he was full of fire then.

Mikoto walks over and places a hand on Sasuke’s shoulder. “Why don’t you hang out with me for the day? I noticed you use a sword similar to mine. We could spar a bit?”

Sasuke bites his lip, some of his icy demeanor melting away the moment their mother touched him.

Mikoto turns her head to smile at him. “Go on, Itachi. Just for a few hours.”

Itachi glances between Sasuke and his mother, his eyes drawn once again to the bruises on his little brother's throat. He makes his decision.

“I suppose that would be fine. But just until Father gets home.”

Shisui grins. “Great! And you can tell me all about what happened! Also, Sasuke, what’s up with your outfit?”

Sasuke glowers at him. He grabs Itachi by the elbow as Itachi passes him, nails sharp as he yanks him close. “ _Don't even think about it_ —”

“What do you think I’m going to do?” Itachi says lowly, his voice barely a breath against the boy’s ear. “ _Kill him_? That would be a bit pointless, wouldn’t it?”

Itachi doesn’t look at him as he passes. He sheds his headband and cloak before leaving the house.

* * *

“So,” Shisui says, only minutes after leaving. “What's with the slashed headband, little cousin? Do you have hidden aspirations you haven’t told me about?”

Itachi doesn’t look at him as they walk. It’s easier that way—hurts less.

“We’re not cousins. And I’m older than you.”

Shisui makes a face. “You are, aren’t you? That’s _weird_.”

He clearly recognizes that Itachi is deflecting his question. But for some reason, he allows it.

It’s strange to walk by Shisui’s side like this, and not just because the boy is dead. It’s strange to be _older_ than him, to be _taller_. It’s strange to suddenly have a new perspective, when Shisui always seemed so grown up to him.

_He’s so young. He never seemed young._

He wonders if this is how Sasuke feels looking at the younger version of Itachi. Or if the seething hatred cancels out anything else.

They don’t leave the compound, instead journeying to the old training grounds they used to frequent. Itachi explains to him the bare bones of the time-travel situation as they walk.

Shisui clearly sees how on edge Itachi is. He keeps up his lighthearted manner to combat this, which Itachi appreciates. He’s no doubt just as confused and overwhelmed, but he hides these feelings well in order to put Itachi at ease.

The two of them settle down on the grass. Itachi’s hands are shaking, and he avoids his best friend’s eyes.

_An empty, bloody eye socket. Blood dripping between the fingers of a closed fist. A body tipping back._

_A name ripped from his throat in a scream, his eyes burning—_

Itachi digs his nails into his palms, fighting to stay in the present.

“There is something I need to ask you about,” he says.

He can feel Shisui’s eyes on him, the way his demeanor instantly shifts to something more serious at Itachi’s tone of voice. “What is it?”

“I haven’t been able to figure out exactly what time I’m in. And I couldn’t risk asking anyone else. The coup d’état… what’s the current state of things?”

Shisui presses his lips together with a sigh. “It’s pretty bad. You really couldn’t have chosen a worse time to come back to.”

“It was hardly a choice. How bad?”

Shisui tells him about the situation with the Uchiha and Konoha. The thin line that they are treading on. The growing desperation. Itachi doesn’t need to imagine it—he lived it.

He was hoping they might have traveled back to sometime close before it. Being right back in the middle of it is exactly what he was dreading.

Shisui tells him about the plan to use Kotoamatsukami. And Itachi realizes then how little time his best friend has.

_A week. Maybe less._

He feels sick.

“I don’t suppose you could tell me how it ends,” Shisui says hopefully. “If it all works out.”

The pain in Itachi’s chest is both physical and emotional. He feels suddenly lightheaded.

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Yeah, I know. It was worth a shot, though.”

Agony stabs through his chest like a sharp dagger. He’s unable to stop himself from gasping, gripping at the front of his shirt.

Shisui looks at him sharply. “Itachi?”

“I’m—” _fine_ , he tries to get out, but words feel like pieces of glass in his chest. They’re grating against each other, slicing up his insides.

Itachi coughs, and pain strikes through him again. He tastes blood.

Shisui’s hand is reaching for him, but all he can see is his fingers reaching out as he fell away. Itachi slaps the hand away.

He struggles to get to his feet, but he can’t breathe, and something is clawing at his chest. He coughs, and then he can’t stop coughing.

He falls to one knee, leaning over as each cough sends agony through his chest. Black spots dance in front of his eyes. He hasn’t had a fit this bad in a long time.

He needs his medicine, but he left it in his room in Amegakure, because he’s an _idiot_ —

“Itachi! Itachi, _hey_!”

Shisui grabs Itachi’s arm and throws it over his shoulder, hooking it around his neck. His arm circles Itachi’s waist, hefting him up.

“Come on, stand up. We’re getting you back home.”

* * *

Mikoto Uchiha gave up being an active shinobi when her first child was born. But she never stopped training, and Sasuke was always aware of how deadly she could be.

She was a master at kenjutsu. That’s the main reason why Sasuke chose to take up a sword. To honor her.

Their blades clash together, steel against steel, and Sasuke knows he doesn’t stand a chance. He only started training with his chokutō five months ago.

Under Orochimaru’s tutelage, his skills have excelled rapidly. But he still doesn’t hold a candle to his mother, who has been wielding a sword for longer than he’s been alive.

Kusanagi goes flying out of his hands for the fifth time that evening. Mikoto’s ninjatō kisses his throat.

She lowers the blade, a smile on her lips. “Much better. It took me much longer to disarm you that time.”

Coming from anyone else, those words might have sounded patronizing. But his mother sounds genuinely impressed, and his insides feel warm at the praise.

“How long have you been using that as your weapon?”

Sasuke walks across the floor of the dojo, retrieving his sword. “A few months.”

Mikoto blinks. “In that case, I’m _definitely_ impressed.”

Sasuke feels his cheeks heat up. He ducks his head. “Thanks.”

“Why don’t we take a short break?”

Sasuke shakes his head. He’s sweating, his body aching, but he doesn’t want to stop. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

“No. I can keep going.”

His mother looks at him for a moment. Then she smiles, a laugh like wind chimes escaping her lips.

“You haven’t changed,” she says fondly. “Still so determined.”

She sits down in the middle of the mat, tucking her legs beneath her. With a sigh, Sasuke reluctantly sheathes Kusanagi. He sinks down to the floor next to her.

“I should’ve trained with you more often as a kid,” he says regretfully. “You offered all the time, but I always refused. I don’t know why.”

Mikoto smiles. “It was never my approval you wanted. I’ve always understood that.”

Sasuke remembers. Fighting tooth-and-nail for his father to look at him with pride. Chasing after Itachi, cutting his bare feet on the ground in an effort to catch up.

Sasuke thinks about Itachi now, out somewhere with Shisui. He knows it would be illogical for this version of Itachi to hurt him, but he can’t stop the unease that grips him.

“Do you think Father will be okay with Itachi going off with Shisui-san?”

“Probably not. But your Itachi is an adult, isn’t he? It's not up to me what he does.”

Sasuke makes a face at the words ‘ _your Itachi’._ He doesn’t respond.

The two of them are silent for a few moments. Sasuke simply basks in his mother’s presence, in the miracle of her sitting next to him. When she speaks again, her expression has sobered.

“I’m not there, am I? In your time. I’m dead.”

Sasuke stiffens, turning to look at her with wide eyes. “How… how did you…?”

“Your face when you first saw me,” she tells him softly. “It was like you were seeing a ghost.”

Sasuke swallows. Her eyes are gentle, full of sadness, and he has to look away from them.

Her hand reaches out, brushing his hair from his eyes. “When?” she whispers. “How old were you?”

Sasuke’s hands shake in his lap. “Seven.”

Mikoto looks stricken. “ _Seven_? But… you’re seven right now.”

Sasuke bites his lip. He nods.

“Oh, _Sasuke_.”

She pulls gently on his shoulder, and he falls forward willingly. She wraps her arms around him, the two of them sitting there on the floor. Sasuke buries his face in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says, tears in her voice. “I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t cry. He did all his crying yesterday, for the first time in years. But his heart _burns_.

She runs her fingers through his hair. “It was our fault, wasn’t it?” she whispers. “Because of our plans… oh, I’m so _sorry_ …”

Sasuke frowns, pulling out of her embrace. “What are you talking about? What plans?”

Mikoto blinks the tears from her eyes. She opens her mouth—

“Mikoto-san!”

Their heads snap toward the yell. Sasuke finds himself standing, instinctively responding to the urgency in the voice. He rushes from the dojo, toward the front of the house.

Sasuke freezes when he sees the two figures in the doorway. His mouth goes dry, his heart jumping into his throat.

Mikoto rounds the corner a moment later, a reprimand already on her lips. “Shisui, the _doorbell_ —”

She stops the moment she takes in the scene, rushing forward. “What _happened_?”

Itachi has his arm thrown over Shisui’s shoulder, the other boy supporting him. There’s blood on his lips, and when he covers his cough with his hand, it’s on his sleeve as well.

Sasuke feels fear grip him, rooting him in place.

He's never seen Itachi bleed before.

Itachi pushes away from Shisui as their mother reaches out for him.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, in a tone quite unlike him. It’s too _emotional_. “Just— _don’t touch me_.”

He bats away Mikoto’s hands, tearing past Sasuke toward the stairs. Their mother calls out to him, but he doesn’t acknowledge her.

Mikoto turns back toward Shisui in the doorway. “What happened? What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. We were talking, and then he just started coughing up blood—"

Sasuke snaps out of his daze and runs up the stairs after Itachi. He hears the sound of coughing.

“Itachi!” Sasuke yells, turning the corner just in time to catch a flash of his brother’s hair. “Itachi, _wait_ —"

Itachi slams the bathroom door in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> itachi as he coughs up blood: _what are you talking about, i'm perfectly fine_
> 
> everyone else: 😨🤨


	5. Chapter 5

Fugaku returns from work late in the evening, despite his promise to be home early.

Figuring out this mysterious time-travel situation is extremely high-priority for him. Unfortunately, with the date of their planned coup drawing ever nearer, he doesn’t have the necessary time to devote to it. Both matters are equally pressing, but clan matters must always come before personal ones.

And this _is_ a personal matter. These time-travelers are _his_ sons. There’s no need for anyone else to know.

Anxieties within the clan are higher than ever before. Everyone is on edge, Fugaku most of all. After the long day, he craves nothing more than to fall into bed beside his wife and sleep.

It’s not to be. When he hears of the events that occurred in his absence, his stress increases tenfold.

“You told _Shisui_?”

Mikoto’s lips pull into a scowl. “ _That’s_ what you’re concerned about? Not that your eldest son was coughing up _blood_?”

The pair of them are sitting on their bed, Fugaku still in his uniform. Mikoto is dressed in her night clothes, her dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck.

“Of course I’m concerned about that,” Fugaku says. “But Mikoto, we agreed to keep this between family.”

“Shisui _is_ family.”

Fugaku sighs, but he can’t deny this. The boy has no parents of his own—and he’s been hanging around their house since Itachi was six.

Mikoto’s face softens as she looks at him. She reaches forward to take his hand.

“It will be alright, dear. We can trust Shisui. You know that.”

Some of the tension leaks from Fugaku’s shoulders. “I know. Forgive me, it’s been a long day at work.”

He gives himself a moment to release his trepidations of Shisui knowing. His wife is right, and she doesn’t deserve such sharpness from him. Instead, he moves onto the more pressing concern.

“Is Itachi alright?”

Mikoto huffs. “He said he was fine. But considering he was coughing up blood when he said it, I felt disinclined to believe him.”

Fugaku’s concern probably isn’t as sharp as it should be. Instead, it’s more like a dull throb. Like his heart is _trying_ to feel it, _wants_ to feel it, but isn’t quite sure how to go about it.

Truthfully, he isn’t sure how to feel. These time-travelers, while achingly familiar, are not the sons that he knows and has raised.

Mikoto appears to have formed an instant connection to them, like a mother holding her newborn child in her arms for the first time. But Fugaku just doesn’t feel the same.

He believes they are who they say. But he looks at them, and they still feel like strangers.

“Do you know what caused it?” Fugaku asks. “Did he say anything to you?”

“Besides that he was fine? No.” Mikoto sighs, her dark eyes full of worry. “I don’t know what to do. He won’t talk to me. And I don’t feel like I have the right to make him, you know? He’s not _our_ Itachi.”

She shifts on the bed, tucking her feet beneath her. She looks soft like this, _young_ , and it reminds Fugaku of the early days of their marriage. Back when things were simpler.

Before the horrors of war chiseled lines into her face. Before the weight of Clan Head caused his shoulders to hunch.

Fugaku squeezes the fingers still held in his hand.

“You know what Itachi is like,” he says gently. “He’ll tell us what’s wrong only when he wants us to know, and not a moment before. That doesn’t seem to have changed in the future.”

Mikoto huffs. “That’s hardly reassuring. Itachi could be on his deathbed and still claim to be perfectly okay.”

This, unfortunately, is true.

Fugaku leans back slightly as a wave of exhaustion hits him. He pulls his hand back, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“This is a horrible time for something like this to be happening. The situation with the clan is already so precarious. I spent all day placating them.”

Mikoto frowns. “Did something happen at work today?”

Fugaku debates for a moment whether to tell her. “Some of the men on the force… they’ve begun to doubt Itachi’s loyalties. He missed another clan meeting three days ago.”

Mikoto’s mouth pinches. “Well, he’s ANBU. The Hokage keeps him very busy.”

“That’s exactly their issue. They don’t like that he’s so close to Sarutobi.”

“Itachi’s close position to the Third is the only reason we’ve been able to pull this off—"

“Believe me, I know that. But he’s missed two meetings in the last month alone. He isn’t making himself look good.”

Mikoto’s jaw clenches. She turns her body toward the headboard of the bed, pinning Fugaku with a sharp look.

“You never should have involved him. I told you, you should have just left him out of it. He’s too _young_.”

Fugaku sighs at the familiar argument. “I _had_ to involve him, Mikoto. You know that.”

Mikoto looks away from him. A strand of hair falls loose from her ponytail. She flicks it out of her eyes with a sharp movement.

Fugaku watches her closely. Something has been weighing on her since he’s gotten home. He can read it in her eyes.

He reaches out to tuck the stray hair behind her ear, his knuckles brushing her cheek. “You’re troubled by something.”

“The future version of my son was coughing up blood today. Of course I’m troubled.”

He shakes his head. “No. This is something else. What is it?”

Mikoto’s mouth pinches. Her eyes lower.

“Nothing, it’s just…” She sighs, raising her gaze to look at him. “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”

Fugaku blinks in slight surprise. Throughout all of their planning, Mikoto has never expressed any doubts about what they are doing. She never wanted Itachi involved, but she never questioned that what they are doing is right.

“Are you having second thoughts?” he asks, drawing closer to her. “What brought this on?”

She bites her lip. “It's just that… I was talking to Sasuke earlier today. Not _our_ Sasuke, the future one. And something he said to me just made me think.”

“Think about what?”

“About what we’re doing. What we could lose. I know what we’re doing is what’s best for our clan. But is it what’s best for our _children_?”

Fugaku sighs. He has had the same doubts. He knows that they are risking their lives by doing this—and the lives of many others. He has seen war, and he doesn’t want to see another one. He doesn’t want his children to see one, either—especially Itachi, who has already born witness to that hell at far too young an age.

But for the sake of their clan and their children, they must take that risk. Salvation can never be won without a price.

Mikoto’s eyes are gleaming. She shakes her head. “I just… I don’t want to leave my children all alone.”

Fugaku feels a wrench in his chest. He pulls his wife gently into his arms.

“We won’t. Mikoto, _we won’t_.”

She smells the same way she did sixteen years ago, the first time he held her this close. He rests his chin on the top of her head.

“I know it’s frightening,” he says. “But we have to do this. It’s the only way we’ll ever be safe here.”

He’s not doing this for power. He’s not doing this for prestige. He’s doing this to protect his clan—to protect his _sons_.

However this turns out, he hopes that they understand that.

* * *

Sasuke stares at his image in the mirror with a scowl, tugging at the end of the shirt he’s wearing.

The clothes are no different from the ones he's worn most of his life. The shirt is black with the usual high collar. The Uchiha Clan's crest is embroidered on the back. It fits him perfectly, as if it’s actually his.

But it’s _not_ his. It’s _Itachi’s_ , and the fabric feels like insects against his skin.

The bruise on his throat has darkened after a day and a half, leaving the imprint of fingers clearly visible against his fair skin. Sasuke’s fingers shake as he pulls up the collar, hiding the bruise from sight.

For a moment, his face in the mirror blurs with Itachi’s. He fights the urge to be sick.

Sasuke forces his eyes from his reflection. He’s standing on the edge of a crumbling cliff, and if he stays in place any longer he’s going to fall. He turns around, opening the door and leaving the room.

In the clothes of his parents’ killer, he joins his family for breakfast downstairs.

His mother smiles when she sees him, frying eggs over by the stove.

“Sasuke-kun,” she says, glancing him over. “You look nice.”

Bile rises up in his throat. _I look like Itachi,_ he thinks, and fights the urge to rush back up the stairs and rip the outfit off.

“Thanks,” he says instead.

He turns toward the table, and his heart does a flying leap when he sees the young version of his brother sitting there. He flinches back instinctively, his entire body going cold.

“What are you doing here?” he asks harshly, before he can stop himself.

Young Itachi looks down at the plate in front of him, then raises an eyebrow. “Having breakfast.”

The ‘ _duh'_ at the end of that sentence is silent but strongly implied.

Sasuke scowls, trying to recover himself. He knows there’s no way the thirteen-year-old didn’t notice his reaction.

 _Does it matter?_ Sasuke wonders. _He probably already has plans to kill them. Which means he knows exactly why I hate him._

Sasuke glances over at Mikoto. There was no reason to hide his hatred from Itachi. But his mother…

“Do you want some eggs?” Mikoto asks.

Sasuke forces a smile. “Sure.”

He forces himself to slide into the chair across from Young Itachi. He can feel the boy watching him.

“How is your brother?” Mikoto asks, a thread of concern in her voice. “Did he ever talk to you about what happened yesterday?”

Young Itachi lifts his head slightly, his attention sharpening.

Sasuke scowls. “No. He didn’t.”

His heart still skips a beat when he remembers yesterday—Itachi coughing up blood in the doorway, Shisui holding him up. He’s never seen his older brother hurt before, and seeing him like _that_ …

Itachi refused to speak to him afterwards. He acted fine when he emerged from the bathroom, like nothing happened. But Sasuke can’t get it out of his head.

_What happened yesterday? He didn’t look injured… does that mean he’s sick?_

His insides burn with frustration at not knowing. He can’t stand it. Is that why Itachi was coughing so much? He assumed his brother just had a touch of a cold… but could he be seriously ill?

Not that Sasuke is _concerned_. Let Itachi choke and die for all he cares.

(He hopes it fucking _hurts_.)

“Where is Itachi, anyway?” he asks. He wasn’t in their room when Sasuke woke up.

“He went with your father earlier this morning,” Mikoto says. “They’re going to try to figure out the jutsu that brought the two of you here.”

Sasuke feels a small spark of irritation at that. He doesn’t want Itachi near their father by himself, and he knows he probably only left so early in order to avoid him. He doesn’t want to deal with anymore of Sasuke’s questions about yesterday.

(Not that Sasuke is _concerned_. Because he _isn't_.)

He feels anxious at the thought of Itachi and Fugaku spending the day researching. What if they find out how to send them back? What if Sasuke doesn’t have enough time to save them—

Sasuke glances up at the boy eating breakfast across from him. It would be so easy to kill him right now. He wouldn’t be expecting it—

(He’s so _young_. God, was he really this _young_?)

Mikoto sets his eggs down in front of him with a smile. “There you go. I added some chopped tomatoes to yours. They’re still your favorite, aren’t they?”

Sasuke blinks, staring down at the plate. Something burns in his chest. For a moment, he’s speechless.

 _Tomatoes._ It’s such a small, simple thing—but it’s been so long since he’s had anyone to remember.

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “Yeah. They’re still my favorite.”

Across the table, Young Itachi shakes his head. “Strange,” he mutters, the corners of his lips twitching up.

Sasuke doesn’t smile back.

He forces himself to focus on his breakfast, not on the imposter sitting at the table with him. He’s halfway done with his eggs when the doorbell rings.

Mikoto turns at the sound. “Who could that be?”

“It’s probably Shisui,” Young Itachi says. “He hasn’t stopped badgering me since yesterday.”

Mikoto raises an eyebrow. “Shisui and the _doorbell_? Not likely.”

She wipes her hands on the hand towel hanging on the oven before going to answer the door. Sasuke tenses the moment she leaves the room, now finding himself alone with his thirteen-year-old brother.

Young Itachi glances over at him with a guarded expression. It seems almost like he longs to speak, but isn’t sure how to start a conversation.

Sasuke feels suffocated. His hands are trembling. Young Itachi’s expression tightens when he sees them, and Sasuke moves them to his lap.

He looks so _young_. Sasuke didn’t expect him to be like this. It’s not how he recalls him in his memory.

Young Itachi offers him a hesitant smile. “This is strange,” he says. “Isn’t it?”

Sasuke’s hit with a wave of hatred, so strong it steals his breath. He attempts to shove it down, to keep it from bursting out of him.

“Yeah. I guess.”

He realizes that he’s on equal ground with this Itachi. They’re close to the same age. Young Itachi clearly recognizes this, which is why his attempt at conversation is so stilted and awkward. He can’t treat him the way he treats his otouto.

Sasuke wonders, briefly, what this Itachi sees when he looks at him. Sasuke looks at him and sees a liar wrapped in a fake skin.

In some ways, it hurts even more to look at this Itachi than it does to look at the current one. This is the Itachi he remembers teaching him how to throw a shuriken. This is the Itachi he remembers bandaging his sprained ankle.

This is the Itachi he remembers shattering his entire world.

( _Wooden floorboards stained with blood—red eyes twisting—_ )

“There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” Young Itachi says. “My older self… your brother… he said he was on an undercover mission when this happened. But you clearly weren’t on the same mission, because you weren’t wearing the same outfit. So how did the two of you end up coming back together?”

Sasuke’s hands shake beneath the table. The voice is like sharp nails scraping against his brain.

“It’s none of your concern,” he snaps.

He doesn’t bother with pretending to be nice. There’s no point now that their mother is gone, and he’s too angry to manage it properly anyway.

A flash of surprise crosses Young Itachi’s face before he hides it away. “I see,” he says stiffly.

He doesn’t understand why Young Itachi is keeping up the act with him—pretending to be the kind older brother. Surely he knows that Sasuke knows what he’s planning?

Unless he isn’t planning it. Was the massacre something he decided on a mere whim? Did the idea simply pop into his head that night, and he decided, _sure, why not_?

Did all of it truly hold no meaning to him?

Sasuke’s hands curl into fists. _I’ll kill you. I swear, I’ll save all of them._

He imagines it vividly—what it will feel like. He imagines lightning in his palm, his arm punching through Itachi’s chest. He imagines the way his chest cavity will cave in, the blood spilling from his lips.

He imagines the betrayal Itachi will look at him with—the same way Sasuke looked at him on that night—he imagines his name falling from Itachi’s lips in broken syllables— _Sa-su-ke_ —

Sasuke’s chest feels tight. He’s sitting across from his clan’s killer, and he can’t get the smell of blood out of his nose. He’s standing in a blood-soaked room, empty eyes bearing into him.

The present blurs for a moment, merging with memory. Sasuke socks in a sharp breath.

Young Itachi gazes at him in worry. “Sasuke? Are you okay?”

He tastes blood in his mouth. He can feel it against the clothes that he’s wearing. _His_ clothes—

The boy reaches out to touch his hand. “Sasuke—"

( _The sharp snap of his wrist—_ )

Sasuke jerks back. “Don’t touch me!”

He slaps Itachi’s hand away _hard_. Itachi freezes, staring at him with stunned eyes. Sasuke stands, breathing hard and nearly knocking over the chair.

His pulse is racing in his ears. He can’t breathe.

Itachi’s eyes are staring at him with such _concern_.

_I can’t. I fucking can’t—_

He turns around and spins from the room. His mind is cycling through images, throwing them in front of his eyes. Red eyes twisting, a sword slashing down—

His mother is at the door, talking with someone in a police uniform. Sasuke changes direction and heads for the back door instead. He bursts outside, onto the porch.

The same porch where he and Itachi once sat— _I’ll always be there for you_ —where they once dragged their sleeping bags out to sleep under the stars— _you’ll surpass me_ —

He keeps going until he outruns the memories. Until his heart is pounding like a drum in his chest, and he leaves the Uchiha Clan’s crest far behind him.

He's not inside the compound anymore. He’s standing in the familiar streets of the village.

He places his hands on his knees, bending over. He struggles to breathe.

 _You’re fine. Pull it together._ He feels a burst of self-loathing for his own behavior. _Itachi is right. You're fucking pathetic._

“Hey, uh, are you alright?”

Sasuke startles at the young voice. He looks up from his knees, and his heart jumps in his chest.

A seven-year-old Naruto Uzumaki is standing in front of him.

Sasuke stares, speechless.

The kid stares at him with blue eyes that seem to stab straight into his soul. “You don’t look good. Do you need help?”

“I’m fine,” Sasuke manages after a moment. He has a vivid recollection of the last time he saw his old teammate—punching a hole straight through his ribcage—

“You look a lot like a friend of mine.” Naruto pauses, his face screwing up. “Well, actually, he’s not really a friend. He’s a jerk and I hate him—but you look like him. You have the same stupid hair.”

Sasuke is feeling strange things that he can’t parse out. The folded-up picture in his pocket is burning a hole.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Go bother someone else.”

For a moment, Naruto’s face drops. Hurt flashes across it—hurt that he learned to hide when he was older. “Fine!”

Sasuke’s heart twinges slightly as the blonde spins around. Before he can fully register what he’s doing, he’s calling out.

“Wait!”

Naruto stops. He turns to look at Sasuke with a mulish look on his face, his arms crossed. “What?”

“What are you doing now? Shouldn’t you be in class?”

The seven-year-old hesitates before he answers, looking at him distrustful.

“Iruka-sensei is teaching us _book stuff_ today,” he says with a huff. “It’s super boring. And I was really hungry, so I was going to get some ramen from Ichiraku's. But I dropped my money somewhere, and now I can’t find it!”

“I can pay for you.”

His mouth makes the offer without his consent. Sasuke wants to immediately yank the words out of the air. What the hell is wrong with him? Why should he care if the damn moron starves—

Naruto freezes, staring at him. “You will?”

He could take it back, but… he supposes it doesn’t matter. He’s not ready to go back home yet, anyway.

“Sure. Whatever.”

The jinchuuriki _lights up_. “Wow! Thanks so much! I was gonna die if I had to go any longer without ramen! You’re really not like Sasuke-teme at all—"

Sasuke scowls. “Don’t thank me. I was already going to eat, that’s all. Now shut up. You keep talking so much, you can get lost.”

Naruto nods obediently. After a moment, the smile slips from his face, gaining an edge of anxiousness. “Are you sure you want to hang around me? You’re not supposed to.”

“So? Why should I care?”

“You’ll get in trouble. People will probably yell at you.”

Sasuke shrugs. “Let them. They’ll regret messing with me.”

Naruto looks up at him for a moment. Then, his face breaks into a wide grin.

(It definitely _doesn’t_ do strange things to Sasuke’s chest. Really—he doesn’t feel anything.)

* * *

Itachi flips another page of the book in front of him, attempting to ignore the weight of his father's gaze.

They’ve been researching for a couple of hours now, mostly in silence. They’re at Police Headquarters, which makes Itachi feel extremely uncomfortable. It was strange for him to walk into the building and not see it as he left it that night, bloody and littered with corpses.

Fugaku isn’t easy for him to be around. He’s a conflict of feelings in Itachi’s head that he’s never been able to sort out.

A part of him hates the man—blames him for everything that happened. But he also remembers the last words he said to him.

( _I’m still proud of you._ )

Itachi bites the inside of his cheek. He glances up at his father.

“Find anything?”

Fugaku is searching through a group scrolls that contain information about bloodline limits. The nuke-nin that sent Itachi and Sasuke back here was from the Mochizuki Clan, but Itachi doesn’t know anything about they’re special abilities.

“Nothing,” Fugaku says with a sigh. “You’re sure the technique this shinobi used was a kekkai genkai?”

“Positive.”

The two of them go back to reading the files spread out in front of them. After a moment, Itachi feels his father’s gaze on him again.

“Your mother told me what happened yesterday,” he says. “Are you… doing alright?”

Itachi’s jaw tightens. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

He _hates_ that everyone saw him like that yesterday—that he _let_ them see him like that. Now they won’t leave him alone, no matter how harshly he rebuffs them.

His mother keeps looking at him like she thinks he’s going to keel over at any moment. And his younger self kept giving him _looks_ this morning, like he was a particularly complex puzzle.

“You were coughing up blood,” Fugaku says with a frown. “That doesn’t sound fine to me.”

“Maybe not,” Itachi responds coldly. “But I can handle it. It doesn’t concern you.”

He doesn’t look up to see how his father takes the words, but he doesn’t press any further. Silence descends once again.

Itachi hasn’t coughed up any blood since his fit yesterday, fortunately. There is a dull ache in his chest, and his body is feeling increasingly weak, but he’s been pushing through it.

He and Sasuke both need to get back to their own time. _Now_.

After a moment, Fugaku makes a quiet noise. Itachi lifts his head to look at him.

“Did you find something?”

“Yes,” Fugaku says. “Right here.” He leans over to show Itachi the writing on the scroll. “It says the Mochizuki Clan possess the power to send you back to the time of your deepest regret. Only when your heart is at peace, will the jutsu allow the person to return.”

“Deepest regret,” Itachi mutters. He remembers the ball of light flying toward his little brother, and the realization sinks in his stomach like a stone.

_Dammit, Sasuke._

* * *

Later that day, back at the house, Sasuke pulls the picture of Team Seven from his pocket and stares down at it.

_You’ve become my closest friend._

His own words come back to him. He scowls. He wants to crumple the photograph up, to throw it away. It’s useless to him now. But still, something stops him.

“Who are they?”

Sasuke whips the picture out of sight, back into his pocket. Young Itachi has come up behind him, his expression cautious.

“None of your business,” Sasuke snaps.

Sasuke remembers Itachi and his partner in that inn, with Naruto backed into a corner. _Naruto is the prize the Akatsuki is after._

He still doesn’t know what the Akatsuki wants with Naruto—though he knows now that it has everything to do with the power housed inside him.

Sasuke finally learned the name of that power when he went to Orochimaru. _Kyuubi no Youko._

Young Itachi is looking at him with a shrewd expression. His face isn’t quite as devoid of emotion as his older counterpart, but it’s still very careful.

Sasuke is a year older than him. But even this younger version of his brother seems so much more mature.

“I know you’re afraid of me,” Young Itachi begins.

Sasuke scowls. “I am not _afraid of you_.”

Young Itachi looks at him for a moment. He inclines his head.

“Alright,” he says finally. “You’re not afraid of me. But you don’t like being around me. I can see it in your eyes. You look cornered—like you want to run.”

Sasuke doesn’t say anything.

“Either that,” Itachi continues, “or you look like you want to stab me.”

“Try the second one,” Sasuke snaps.

Young Itachi’s eyes flicker slightly, and that careful mask falls away slightly. His head falls forward slightly, his bangs falling into his eyes.

Sasuke is taller than him. It’s a jarring realization.

“Why?” Itachi says quietly. The aggravating, always-present levelness is gone from his voice. “What did I do to you… to make you hate me so much?”

Sasuke swallows. He feels gutted by the genuine _pain_ in his brother’s voice.

 _It’s an act,_ Sasuke reminds himself, ignoring the way his hands are shaking. _He’s a good actor. That’s all it is._

There are so many answers to Itachi’s question. So many things he can say. _You killed everyone. You made me watch. You tortured me._

“You left me,” Sasuke says.

It’s not the worst thing his brother did to him. Not even close. But to this day, it still stings like a rusty dagger in his heart.

_You left me. You promised you would always be there, and then you fucking left._

Disbelief flickers across Young Itachi’s face. It’s followed by instant denial, as if it’s impossible for him to even imagine.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, I would never—"

“Well, you _did_.”

Something seems to fracture in his eyes. He looks utterly devastated.

That’s when Itachi—the nineteen-year-old version—appears in the doorway. He must have gotten home when Sasuke was out. He pins Sasuke with a hard gaze.

“Sasuke.”

Sasuke turns to him with narrow eyes. “Finally stopped avoiding me, have you?”

Itachi grabs him by the arm and yanks him from the room with a grip like stone. He drags him all the way to the other side of the house, and before Sasuke can even think about asking him about yesterday, he’s being slammed against the wall.

For the second time.

Sasuke swears at him. “Would you stop _doing_ that?”

Itachi ignores him. “Do you want to know what I found out today?”

Sasuke struggles to hear him over the pounding of his heart. Having him this close makes it difficult to breathe. “Get _off._ ”

Itachi does the opposite. He grabs him by the collar of his shirt, pressing him harder against the wall. His knuckles are white.

“The jutsu that sent us back here takes a person to the time of their deepest regret. And it’s impossible to get back until that person deals with their unresolved feelings. Thanks to you, we’re stuck here.”

Sasuke takes a moment to process this new information. He feels a rush of relief that they can’t get back yet, but fury follows right on its heels.

“You’re blaming me?”

“The jutsu was aimed at you—”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one that it hit!”

Itachi freezes. His eyes bear into him, and Sasuke looks back at him just as fiercely.

“The massacre isn’t my worst regret,” Sasuke says. “The worst day of my entire fucking life? Yeah, definitely. But I don’t regret it, because _I didn’t do anything_.”

The truth of it sinks in, impossible for him to believe. But it wasn’t _him_ , so it's the only explanation. If this jutsu really does send a person back to their deepest regret...

Sasuke grabs Itachi’s wrists. He pushes his brother away from him, forcing his hands to release their grip on his shirt collar.

“It wasn’t me that sent us here, Itachi. It was _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re confused about why Itachi, who is a literal genius, didn't realize it was his regret that sent them back, it’s because he’s in denial over the fact that he considers the massacre a regret. He wishes he didn't have to do it, but he's managed to convince himself that it was the right thing to do. He doesn’t want to confront the fact that deep down, he thinks it was the wrong choice.
> 
> Young Sasuke returns next chapter :) It’s been a while since we've seen him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been 2 months and i have no excuses, so just have the chapter you guys

After four days, Itachi still isn’t used to being greeted by his mother when he walks down the stairs in the morning.

“Sleep well?” she asks him.

Itachi’s heart skips a beat, as it does every time she smiles at him. It doesn’t help the pain in his chest, which is especially excruciating today.

“Okay,” he answers, thanking the gods when he doesn’t descend into a coughing fit.

Young Itachi is at the table this morning, as well as Young Sasuke. Itachi keeps his face impassive as he pulls back a chair, pretending the sight of his seven-year-old brother doesn’t knock the breath from his lungs.

If the way Young Itachi looks at him is any indication, he doesn’t entirely succeed.

Young Sasuke brightens when he sits down, a smile curving his mouth, and the sight is like dozens of senbon twisting his chest. It hurts even more when he realizes how familiar the expression is—because he’s only ever seen it on this version of his brother.

He hasn’t seen his Sasuke smile. Not once in four days.

“Good morning, Nii-san,” Young Sasuke greets him, apparently forgetting he was told to call him by name.

Itachi’s chest tightens. _Nii-san._ How long has it been since someone’s called him that?

“Morning,” Itachi says back. He glances at the clock, which reads half-past eight. “You’re not going to school?”

The boy gives him a strange look.

“It’s the _weekend_ ,” Young Sasuke says. “I can’t go to school on the _weekend_.”

He looks to the left at his brother, as if to ask him _why is your future self so dumb?_ Young Itachi just shrugs in response. _I don’t know._

It hurts to remember how he and Sasuke used to do that—communicate silently, without any words between them.

Mikoto sets their breakfast down in front of them. Itachi thanks her as she sets down his, before she takes her own seat at the table.

“If today is the weekend, then where is Father?”

Mikoto reaches for the tea in the center of the table. “He had important clan matters to attend to this morning.”

Young Itachi’s face tightens just barely at the words, his shoulders tensing. Young Sasuke, to Itachi’s surprise, actually notices. He doesn’t remember his brother ever picking up on his moods back then.

“Nii-san, are you okay?”

Young Itachi smiles. “I’m fine. Eat your breakfast.”

Mikoto spares a sad look toward her oldest son, but doesn’t say anything. Sasuke turns obediently to his breakfast.

There’s a distant look in Young Itachi’s eyes, and Itachi doesn’t need to guess at what he’s feeling right now. He lived it—he _remembers_ it.

The stress. The desperation. The conflict of being caught between two sides, feeling as though he was being split down the middle. The _panic_ , as his deadline to _do something_ drew ever closer.

There are dark circles under Young Itachi’s eyes. Itachi knows he hasn’t slept properly in months.

“Has there been any progress on how to send the two of you back?” Young Itachi asks.

“Some. We’ve figured out how we were sent here, at least.”

Across from him, Young Sasuke pouts. “No fair. You’re going back _already_?”

Young Itachi frowns at him disapprovingly. “They’re not supposed to be here, Sasuke.”

“But I haven’t even gotten to _talk_ to them!”

“Chew with your mouth closed.”

Sasuke scowls. He swallows his mouthful of food before sticking his tongue out. Young Itachi rolls his eyes at the childish display, but a fond smile lingers on the edge of his lips.

The four of them eat breakfast together silently. The _normalcy_ of it is surreal, and to Itachi, it still feels like a genjutsu. Looking at his mother, he can’t see her without the sliced open throat, the smear of red on her lips.

His blade that dripped blood onto the floorboards.

His younger counterpart has noticed that he’s become lost in thought, and has taken advantage of it as an opportunity to observe him. His eyes are sharp, and unlike the curiosity and intrigue from before. This time, his gaze seems to have an edge to it.

Itachi feels like his younger self is _judging_ him. Itachi wonders what Sasuke said to him yesterday, that the thirteen-year-old is now looking at him like that.

Clearly nothing good.

Young Sasuke looks up at him curiously. “So where is… um…” His eyebrows furrow in confusion as he tries to work out how to say it. “Where am I? I mean… um… your brother? Future me?”

Young Itachi smirks slightly at the boy’s awkward tone. “Eloquent, otouto.”

Young Sasuke blushes. “Shut up! You’re such a _jerk_.”

Young Itachi cuffs him on the back of the head. The seven-year-old retaliates by attempting to kick him under the table, but he dodges, causing Young Sasuke’s foot to hit their mother instead.

“Ow!” Mikoto glares across the table. “ _Sasuke_!”

“He started it!”

There’s a knife lodged between Itachi’s ribs that makes it hard to breathe. It’s unbearable, watching the two mirages in front of him. Pulled straight from his memory, torturing him by replaying in front of his eyes.

He had forgotten the small moments like this. The two of them bickering back and forth, the way siblings do. There’s a lightness to it that seems foreign now.

 _Was I really ever so carefree?_ Itachi wonders, wire-string strangling his heart as he watches his younger self ruffle his brother’s hair. Young Sasuke bats him away.

It _hurts_.

“Sasuke is still asleep upstairs,” Itachi says, ignoring the sharp ache and answering the earlier question poised by Young Sasuke.

Mikoto smiles. “I see. So Sasuke-kun still has his habit of sleeping in late, huh?”

“I doubt he would know,” Young Itachi mutters, in a voice so low that no one at the table seems to catch it. Itachi barely does, and he cuts his younger self a sharp glance, but the boy is refusing to look at him.

Young Sasuke huffs at his mother. “I don’t sleep late! I’m up right now, aren’t I? And it’s really early!”

“It’s nine o’clock, sweetie. It’s not that early.”

“It’s _super_ early! But I’m still up, because Nii-san promised to help me with my shurikenjutsu today!”

Young Itachi winces, setting down his cup. A guilty look flashes across his face—a look Itachi is very familiar with.

“About that,” he says. “Sasuke…”

Sasuke is familiar with the look as well, because his eyes widen, turning in his chair. “No—not again—you _promised_ —”

“I know. But my mission today—”

“You said it didn’t start until later!”

“It doesn’t. But Hokage-sama wants to meet with me before I leave."

“Liar!”

Young Itachi sighs. He gives Young Sasuke an apologetic smile, and Itachi can predict his next action before he makes it. He watches as the thirteen-year-old raises his hand, poking his little brother in the forehead with two of his fingers.

“Sorry, Sasuke. Next time, okay?”

Young Sasuke stares at him for a moment. He slaps the two fingers away, face twisting as he stands from his chair.

“Why do I b-bother,” he mutters, clearly choking back tears. He bolts from the room.

Mikoto stands immediately. “Sweetheart!”

The sound of footsteps on stairs is heard. Mikoto sighs heavily, and then she pins Young Itachi with a disappointed look.

“ _Itachi_.”

Young Itachi bristles slightly at her tone. “Hokage-sama called the meeting last minute. I couldn’t say no.”

“You knew he’d be upset. You’re breaking his heart.”

“It’s only for a few days. It’s not like I’m _leaving_ him.”

Young Itachi shoots a sharp glance at Itachi as he says this. Itachi freezes, feeling pinned in place. It’s impossible for him to misconstrue that comment as being meant for anyone but him.

_Just what did Sasuke say yesterday?_

“I know that,” Mikoto says, oblivious to the hidden meaning behind the harsh words. “But he gets his hopes up every time only to be let down, and it’s not fair. If you can’t keep your promises, then maybe you should stop making them.”

Itachi feels those words sharply, even if they aren’t directed at him. His jaw tightens, remembering the dozens of broken promises littered throughout their childhood.

( _Sorry, Sasuke. Next time, okay?_ )

There rarely ever was a next time.

Young Itachi is looking ashamed again, clearly feeling the impact of his mother’s words as strongly as his future counterpart. He looks at the doorway in regret.

“I’ll make it up to him when I get back.”

“You better,” Mikoto says. “Now finish your breakfast before you go. You never eat enough when you go on missions. You always come back skinnier.”

Young Itachi obeys, and the regret lingers on his face for the rest of the meal. Itachi doesn’t say anything. He feels out of place in the kitchen, like he’s been dropped into his own memory only to find it isn’t as he remembers. He doesn’t feel like he fits inside it anymore.

Young Itachi drops his plate into the sink, telling his mother goodbye. Mikoto stares at the kitchen doorway for a long moment after he leaves, her bottom lip held slightly between her teeth.

“That’s unlike him,” she says softly in concern. “He hardly ever gets irritated like that.”

Itachi knows better. As a thirteen-year-old kid tangled in the political strings of the clan and the village, he got irritated often. He simply knew how to hide it from the people around him.

“Don’t take it personally,” Itachi attempts to console her. “He’s just… stressed. He hasn’t been sleeping well.”

Mikoto looks at him, as if remembering suddenly that he is the same person as the one that just walked out—that for him, this conversation in the kitchen is a years' old memory.

And it _is_. Itachi can vaguely remember it happening—remembers the stress and exhaustion that caused him to have less patience than usual, that allowed those feelings to leak into his voice.

Of course, in his memory, there was no future version of himself sitting across from him at the table.

Itachi doesn’t know how this time-travel thing works, and it makes him worry. Are they changing anything by being here? Itachi’s memories aren’t being rewritten; he doesn’t remember meeting a future version of himself at the age of thirteen. So how does it work?

Even if he wanted to change something—if he decided to try to save them from their fate—would it even be _possible_? Or does his and Sasuke’s very existence set the future in stone?

Itachi looks at his mother, and the knowledge that she will be dead in less than two weeks burns inside him. He doesn’t blame Sasuke for wanting to stop it—for wanting to risk everything for the chance to grow up with her by his side.

Itachi wants it, too. But unlike Sasuke, he can see the bigger picture.

What if he tries to save them, and then causes the coup? What if that triggers a Fourth Shinobi World War? What if the Uchiha have to be stopped a different way—what if Sasuke _dies_?

Itachi won’t risk Konoha. And he _definitely_ won’t risk Sasuke.

He remembers his brother’s words yesterday, when Itachi had him pinned to the wall. _It wasn’t me that sent us here, Itachi. It was you._ They make him frown, something in his chest feeling tight.

He doesn’t want to think about the possibility of Sasuke being right, no matter how much sense it makes. He doesn’t consider the massacre a regret—he _can’t_. Because that would mean—

Itachi has hated himself every day for the past six years for the blood that stains his hands. But he’s always managed to push forward, to stop himself from breaking beneath the guilt, because he knows it was his only choice.

He hates himself, but he doesn’t _regret_. Regret would mean he chose _wrong_ , but he _can’t have_ , because there was nothing else he could have done—

 _You could have run,_ a voice whispers, far in the back of his head. _You could have grabbed Sasuke and run._

Itachi banishes the voice. Running would have meant abandoning Konoha. That was never an option.

(But still, in the back of his head, in the place he pretends doesn’t exist, that tiny voice whispers: _what has Konoha ever done for you?_ )

“Itachi?” Mikoto says softly. She reaches out to touch his hand. “Are you okay?”

Itachi represses his instinctive reaction to flinch at the touch. He forces his hand to relax beneath hers. “Forgive me. I was lost in thought.”

Mikoto is silent. There’s a gentle sadness in her eyes as she looks at him, the same as there was a few days ago when they spoke in the living room.

“This must be so difficult for you,” she says. “Seeing me. After so much time.”

Itachi blinks, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. “I don’t—”

“I know I’m dead in the future, Itachi. Let’s skip the part where you pretend that I’m not.”

Itachi inhales, and the breath catches in his throat. His chest tightens.

He knew, of course, that his mother had to have guessed she was dead. Sasuke falling into her arms sobbing when he first saw her was enough of a give-away, and she was far from stupid. The way Sasuke looks at her—the way Itachi _avoids_ looking at her—wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.

And Itachi has no idea what she and Sasuke have spoken about these past four days. Clearly nothing about the coup or Itachi’s killing of the clan—but she knows _something_.

“How much do you know?” he asks quietly.

“Not much,” she replies, in the same subdued tone. “I asked your brother about it. I know it happens soon. It’s because of the coup d’état, isn’t it?”

Slight panic flutters in Itachi’s chest.

“You can’t tell Sasuke about that,” he says sharply. “He can’t know about… _you can’t tell him_.”

Mikoto frowns. “What? I know we agreed he’s too young to know about it now. But in the future—why wouldn’t he know? If I died because—”

Itachi’s jaw tightens. A sharp pain shoots through his eye, and he winces. His vision in his right eye blurs for a moment as he stares down at their hands on the table.

“It’s… I can’t tell you. There’s so many things we could mess up just by being here. But he doesn’t know, and he _can’t._ Promise me you won’t tell him.”

Mikoto stares at him, looking deeply concerned. But the urgency on his face must convince her, because she nods.

“Okay. Okay, I won’t tell him. I don’t understand why, but… I trust you’re trying to keep him safe.”

Itachi suppresses his wince at the words, self-loathing filling him. His father’s words echo in his ears. _Take care of Sasuke._

Mikoto looks at him, pain in her eyes. And suddenly, there are arms wrapped around him, a hand on the back of his head. Lavender perfume invades his nose.

Itachi chokes on a gasp, going utterly still.

“I know you don’t like people touching you,” Mikoto says. “I assume this hasn’t changed. But indulge me for a moment, would you?”

His mother is embracing him, and Itachi has forgotten how to breathe. Slowly, painstakingly, he forces his muscles to relax. He forces his body to loosen.

When’s the last time someone hugged him? Six years ago? Seven? _Longer_?

Slowly— _oh so slowly_ —Itachi brings his arms up to return the embrace. The gesture is awkward, and he’s forgotten how to do it correctly.

“I’m sorry,” Mikoto says. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

Itachi swallows. Her fingers are running gently through his hair, and his throat feels tight.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m—I’m okay. Really.”

“We can fix this,” Mikoto says, almost desperately. “There’s still time. You and Sasuke—you don’t have to grow up alone. _I won’t let you_ grow up alone.”

Itachi closes his eyes. “There’s nothing you can do. Things are as they’re meant to be.”

Mikoto’s arms tighten around him.

“No,” she says. “That’s too cruel for me to accept.”

* * *

Sasuke dreams of streets littered with bodies and stained with blood. He wakes with a hammering heart, terror bright in his chest.

Itachi is nowhere to be seen. Sunlight spills into the room through the blinds—it’s already the afternoon.

Sasuke steps out of his childhood room and begins to walk down the hallway. The house is suspiciously quiet for the middle of the day, and the stairs creak loudly in the silence as he depends them.

The living room is empty and so is the kitchen. It’s familiar in the worst way possible, and Sasuke has the sudden fear that he’s somehow traveled back in his sleep. His parents are dead, and he’s alone in his house again.

There are two pairs of shoes by the door. A coat that doesn’t belong to him on the hook on the wall. Sasuke digs his nails into his palms, breathing a soft sigh of relief.

_It’s fine. You still have time._

Sasuke walks into the living room. Their cat brushes past his ankles as he does, purring and Sasuke bends down briefly to pet her. She pushes her head against his hand.

The pictures on the fireplace are different from the ones there in his time. After the massacre, he took down the ones where Itachi appeared.

Sasuke walks closer to it. His thoughts are heavy with yesterday’s events. His neck is still sore from Itachi’s chokehold from four days ago.

Itachi refused to speak to him yesterday. He shut him out entirely, just like he did when he came home hanging off Shisui, hacking up blood.

There’s more going on here than he can see. Sasuke knows there is. Something is happening behind the scenes—something he was too young to pick up on before.

He remembers his parents being tense around this time—remembers the arguments. He remembers the distance that grew between Itachi and their father, the way Itachi drew into himself more than he already was. He remembers the conversations he wasn’t a part of, that went right over his head.

But he was seven then. He _saw_ , but he hadn’t _grasped_ it.

His mother is worried and his father is on edge. Young Itachi is anxious, so much that there are moments when his expression is actually _readable_.

And Young Sasuke is oblivious to it all—just as he is.

He remembers what Mikoto said just two days ago in the dojo. She had asked if her death had been caused by their _plans_. What was she talking about? What plans?

There’s a photo on the mantel of the fireplace—the four of them standing together. He looks no older than five in the picture, clinging to his older brother’s side.

He picks it up, his thumb against the glass. He stares at Itachi’s smile.

Sasuke thinks of Itachi’s face when their mother reached out to touch him—an emotion in his eyes that looked almost like _longing_. There’s a part of his brother, even if it’s small, that _feels_. He’s seen the proof of it.

_This is his regret. That’s the entire reason we’re back here._

He can’t accept it. He doesn’t want to. It’s so much easier for him to believe that Itachi is pure evil, completely lacking a capacity to care. Because if a part of him truly did love them—yet he chose to kill them anyway—then somehow, that makes it even _worse_.

_Why? If he regrets it—_

Sasuke’s fingers shake around the frame of the photograph. He doesn’t want there to be more to it. And he doesn’t want to _care_ if there is.

_Does it matter? He still killed them._

Hating his own brother is the most exhausting thing he’s ever done, but it’s also all he has. It’s all he _is_. He doesn’t want to question it, he doesn’t want this conflict. He wants to want to kill him—it’s not easy, but it’s _simple_ —

Sasuke sets the photo down with more force than necessary. The other picture frames on the fireplace rattle.

 _I hate you,_ he thinks, staring down at his brother’s smiling face behind the glass. The feeling is like a black hole in his chest. It consumes him.

( _You’re still too weak. You don’t have enough hatred._ )

Sasuke’s throat tightens. He can feel the wall at his back and the fingers pressing into his neck. Itachi’s hair brushes his cheek and his voice is at his ear—

Sasuke chokes on his breath. His hand comes up to his throat, touching the bruises there. The living room fades, replaced by red eyes—

A soft noise snaps him out of the memory. Sasuke blinks, banishing the horrible images. He drops his hand back to his side.

Sasuke listens for a moment, trying to identify the noise. _It’s crying_ , he realizes. Quiet sobs barely reaching his ears—they’re coming from the back porch.

He knows, even before he reaches the back porch, what he’ll find. _Itachi_ would certainly never cry in such a way.

Young Sasuke is curled up, in the same spot him and Itachi once dragged the mattresses outside to sleep beneath the stars. His legs are pulled against his chest, and he’s attempting to muffle his sobs in his knees.

Something catches in Sasuke’s chest at the sight.

“You should keep it down,” he says. “You don’t want Father to hear you.”

Young Sasuke’s head snaps up, a brief expression of panic crossing his face at being caught doing something so embarrassing—so _weak_. Once he realizes the person behind him isn’t Fugaku or Itachi, he relaxes.

He bites back on his sobbing, lifting his head from his knees and looking faintly embarrassed.

“Father isn’t h-here,” he says shakily. “They’re all—all g-gone.”

Sasuke nods. That makes sense. He certainly never would have risked crying so openly if he thought there was a risk of being overheard.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Why are you crying out here?”

Young Sasuke sniffs, wiping the tears from his cheeks. He looks at Sasuke uncertainly, unsurely. Sasuke can read his thoughts in his eyes.

“I won’t make fun of you,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m _you_ , remember?”

Little Sasuke bites his lip. “Nii-san broke his promise again.”

Sasuke winces. “Oh.”

He remembers the feeling well—the way it always felt like a gut-punch, even though he should have been used to it. _Next time, Sasuke._

Young Sasuke has turned back around, burying his face back in his knees. Hesitantly, Sasuke walks further out onto the porch to sit by his side.

The sun shines down into his face. Sasuke sits there, not speaking. He’s not good with words, and usually doesn’t bother with them unless he feels they’re necessary. Talking to _himself_ should be easier, but it really isn’t.

Sasuke’s been consumed by anger for six years now. It’s difficult to put himself back in the shoes of the person he used to be—that insecure child, desperate for attention.

“Don’t worry about Itachi,” Sasuke tells the child. “He’s not worth your tears.”

Young Sasuke pins him with an angry look. “That’s not true! Don’t talk about Nii-san like that!”

“Why not? He broke his promise. Again. He _never_ keeps his promises.”

“He… he has important stuff to do.”

“More important than _us_ , you mean.”

Young Sasuke goes quiet. He digs his fingers into his knees, looking heartbroken. Sasuke feels a flash of guilt at the words—and wonders, briefly, how he’ll react once his brother is dead.

( _He’ll be shattered. But it’ll be better than him coming home to find the brother he adored standing over his parents' bodies._ )

“Does he ever stop breaking promises?” Young Sasuke asks.

Sasuke considers lying—but he’s always _hated_ lies, especially the ones told to spare his feelings.

“No. He doesn’t.”

Young Sasuke nods sadly, as if he expected the answer. He stares at the ground in front of him. “He promised to train with me today.”

Sasuke frowns, something in his chest twisting at the pitiful words.

He remembers two fingers jabbing his forehead, pushing him aside. _Next time,_ his brother always said, when what he really meant was _go away. You’re not worth my time._

He remembers the feelings of worthlessness that consumed him—how he would have given anything for the slightest bit of regard.

“I can train with you,” Sasuke says. “If you want me to.”

Young Sasuke looks up at him from beneath the fringe of his bangs. There’s a fragile hope in his eyes—as if he doesn’t dare believe someone would volunteer to spend time with _him_.

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly.

Sasuke’s heart aches for this child—the child he used to be, the child his brother _broke_.

“I know,” Sasuke tells him. “I want to.”

Tentatively, the seven-year-old smiles. “Okay. Can you help me with my shurikenjutsu?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Sasuke is a precious bean who must be protected at all costs 💕💕


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took way too long. however, now that i'm finally done with my story Frayed Truths, I hope to begin updating this story more frequently. also, I can't believe this story has a thousand kudos already, you guys are amazing <3

“Are you sure that it will work?” Sarutobi asks.

Shisui raises his head. He’s in an extremely familiar position—on bended knee in the center of the Hokage’s office. Next to him, Itachi is also kneeling.

“It will work, Sandaime-sama,” Shisui says. “I know that it will.”

 _It has to,_ he thinks. _Or else then…_

There’s an undercurrent of desperation to him that he doesn’t allow to show. Next to him, Itachi’s muscles are coiled tightly, though the thirteen-year-old looks relaxed to anyone who can’t read him.

The Sandaime presses a hand to his mouth. His wizened face is grave, and Shisui wonders if he’s imagining the new wrinkles there.

“It is risky,” he says. “If Fugaku finds you out, then we will lose what little time we have left to act.”

“We’re losing time already. None of us wish for this to end violently—and Itachi can only try to delay the situation for so long before it becomes suspicious.”

It already _is_ suspicious, Shisui thinks, thinking of the orders he received to spy on his friend. The meetings Itachi has missed… the disapproval that has managed to leak through despite his efforts to hide it…

And the two time-travelers that appeared mysteriously. Shisui thinks about the crossed-out headband the future version of Itachi was wearing—he asked about it, but Future Itachi evaded answering.

And then he was suddenly heaving up _blood_ …

Shisui shakes the images away, refocusing his mind. “If I use Kotoamatsukami to compel Fugaku-taichou to protect the village, then it will convince him to halt the coup d’état.”

“And the rest of the clan?” Sarutobi questions. “They will all fall in line with this?”

“There will be some dissenters—the Uchiha Clan has been calling for this for years. If Fugaku changes his mind, there will be many who won’t back him. But without the full force of the clan behind them, they know they won’t succeed.”

“Hm.” The Sandaime’s gaze slips slightly to the right. “Itachi-kun, what is your opinion on this?”

Itachi has kept his gaze locked respectfully on the floor until now. When he is addressed, he raises his head.

“My father is stubborn,” he says. “And his mind is made up. It is too late for any words to sway him. I believe this is the only course of action that will prevent any bloodshed.”

Sarutobi considers the words. “Very well. I trust both of your judgements on this matter. Shisui, I leave this in your hands.”

The words are an implicit dismissal. Shisui bows his head respectfully, standing up to leave. Itachi doesn’t stand with him—he has a mission immediately after this that he and the Third still need to discuss. He stays behind as Shisui exits the room.

Shisui waits for them to finish, leaning against the hallway wall. The Hokage has given his plan the go-ahead—with Kotoamatsukami, the coup d’état will be _stopped_.

And yet, unease squirms in his chest. He remembers Future Itachi, the slash through the metal plate of his headband, and can’t help feeling that it’s all destined to go horribly wrong.

Why would Itachi ever become a _missing-nin_?

Shisui thinks back to their short conversation. With a wince, he immediately recalls the nineteen-year-old coughing up blood into the grass. Mikoto told him that he seemed fine after that, but still, _what the hell was that about_ —

He banishes that train of thought, focusing instead on the conversation they had. It still seems like an extremely strange dream—future versions of his best friend and his best friend’s little brother appearing mysteriously. And at a time like _this_.

Itachi ( _current_ Itachi) has been rather quiet on the matter. Shisui suspects something is eating at him—other than the coup situation, of course.

His conversation with Future Itachi was short, and what little there had been of it was mostly one-sided. Shisui is used to carrying most of their conversations, but something about this was _more_. Future Itachi didn’t seem comfortable with him; he was closed off—the way he is with most people, but never with _Shisui_.

He seemed to hardly want to look at him. And in the single moment he did—

It was quick, but Shisui caught the emotion that flickered through his eyes. _Grief_.

He knows, deep down, what it means. The knowledge sinks into his bones, and he isn’t exactly surprised, but he won’t deny being shaken by it, either. He wants to ask when it happens, _how_ , and he knows it could still be years from now, but he has this dreaded sensation that it’s _soon_.

He feels it—a sense of death. Like the Shinigami is already at his back, gnarled hands reaching for his neck…

“Hey,” Itachi says, appearing from thin air.

Shisui jumps, having a mini heart attack and swearing under his breath. He reaches over to cuff the younger boy on the head. “ _Kami_! Don’t _do_ that, you brat!”

Itachi raises a judgmental eyebrow. “Don’t what? Speak? Walk?”

“Be so quiet! It wouldn’t kill you to make noise!”

“We’re ninja. In a stealth situation, it potentially could kill me to make noise.”

Shisui yanks on the boy’s ponytail vindictively. Itachi hisses like an angry cat, swatting him away. “ _Ow_! Why always my hair—”

“You shouldn’t keep it so long. It makes you look like a girl.”

“It does _not_ —”

The two of them continue to bicker as they walk down the hall. If anyone were to walk past them, they would probably do a double-take. It’s unlike Itachi to participate in such pointless squabbling—but Shisui has long cultivated the ability to provoke a response from _anyone_ , even the coldest individuals. He’s quite proud of it.

“So, am I allowed to know when you’ll be back?” he asks.

“The mission got pushed back,” Itachi says. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow instead.”

Shisui frowns. “You’ll miss the assembly. This’ll be the third one this month.”

“Father will get over it. He’s the one who wanted me to join ANBU in the first place—he can’t be angry at me for doing the job he ordered.”

Personally, Shisui thinks Fugaku could be angry very easily—and _will_ be, when Itachi tells him he’s missing another clan meeting. But that isn’t his main concern here.

“The Police Force is already suspicious of you,” Shisui reminds him. “I’m supposed to be spying on you. If you keep giving them reasons to look in your direction—”

“But you’ll be using Kotoamatsukami.”

Shisui bites his lip slightly. It’s true that Kotoamatsukami could solve all this for them—but how does he explain to Itachi that he doesn’t think he’s going to live long enough to put the plan into action? That he’s afraid he’s going to die, leaving his best friend alone to deal with everything himself?

Itachi is _thirteen_. He doesn’t deserve this heavy weight on his shoulders. Shisui is four years older, and even he is struggling to carry it.

“How is the situation at home?” Shisui asks, changing the subject. “With your two time-travelers? Any new developments?”

Something flashes across his best friend’s face, too quick to catch. “It’s been uneventful. Though they’ve figured out the jutsu that sent them here.”

Shisui hums noncommittally. He watches the younger boy closely. “It must be really strange, huh? Have you talked to either of them?”

A muscle in Itachi’s jaw twitches slightly. _Bingo_ , Shisui thinks.

“Okay. What did one of them say that’s been bothering you?”

Itachi is silent for a long moment. Shisui waits, wondering if he’s going to have to prod more, but finally Itachi speaks.

“It’s Sasuke… _Future_ Sasuke. He can barely look at me… and every time he does, there’s this pain in his eyes. He isn’t at all like the Sasuke I know, he’s so _different_.”

“He’s thirteen, right?” Shisui says, doing the math in his head.

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen. Which means he’s been a shinobi for a few years now. Of course he’s different. He isn’t a kid anymore. He’s grown up, he’s been in battles. He’s watched people _die._ I know that’s something you want to protect him from, but you won’t be able to forever.”

“But I _wasn’t there_.”

Shisui frowns. “What do you mean?”

“He said I _left_ him.” Itachi shakes his head, looking at Shisui in distress. “Why would I leave him? I _wouldn’t_.”

Shisui doesn’t know what to say. He knows how much Sasuke means to Itachi—and it’s hard to imagine a situation where Itachi would ever leave him. But Shisui thinks about the coup, the slash through Future Itachi’s hitai-ate—and a vague picture begins to form in Shisui’s mind. It’s a picture he doesn’t like at all.

“You must have had a reason. Sometimes we have to hurt the people we love. Sometimes it’s the only way to keep them safe.”

Itachi’s jaw tightens. “No. I don’t agree with that.”

“Not now you don’t,” Shisui says quietly. “But people change, Itachi. Sometimes there are no good moves on the board—and you never know the choices you’re willing to make until you’re forced into making them.”

The thirteen-year-old doesn’t respond, his dark eyes deeply troubled.

* * *

Sasuke takes a breath. His eyes closed, a kunai tucked between each of his fingers, he pushes the air slowly out of his lungs from the bottom of his stomach. Very aware of the young eyes watching him, he pushes off the ground with the balls of his feet.

He flips in the air, pulling his elbows in, and the wind rushes by him. Just as he used to watch Itachi, he flicks the four kunai he holds in each hand, eight flashes of light scattering out.

 _Thck. Thck. Thck._ The kunai hit the targets dead-center—even the target behind the boulder. Sasuke lands, rising back up and opening his eyes.

“ _Whoa_.”

Seven-year-old Sasuke is staring at the targets with an awed expression. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly gaping.

“You got _all_ of them! Even the one behind the rock! Just like Nii-san!”

Sasuke feels himself bristle when being compared to his brother, but he bites his tongue to prevent any sharp words from escaping. He remembers his feelings of hero-worship well—and he _had_ been mimicking Itachi when he performed the move.

Young Sasuke walks closer, now that it’s safe. He helps collect a few of the kunai from the targets as he does. “How did you learn that? Did Nii-san teach you?”

Sasuke pauses. “…Yes.”

It isn’t really a lie. Sasuke perfected his skills with a kunai himself—but he did it by remembering Itachi’s movements, by studying them and copying them. In that way, his brother was the one who taught him.

(Itachi was his example for many things—and in some respects, still is. It burns him to admit, but it’s true.)

“I can’t do anything _near_ that,” Young Sasuke says. “Nii-san tried to teach me once, but I got hurt really badly, and then Mom yelled at him. I still have the scar, see?”

The young boy holds up his hand to show him—a deep line on the palm of his hand that curves around his thumb, stopping near the veins of his wrist.

Sasuke rolls his eyes, holding up his own palm to display the same scar—fainter and less noticeable. “I _know_. I’m _you_ , remember?”

Young Sasuke blushes at the repeated reminder, lowering his hand back down. “I forgot,” he mumbles.

Sasuke removes the kunai from the last target. He looks around him at the training grounds—the same place he used to go to with Itachi as a kid. His heart clenches.

“Come on,” he says. “We’ve been here long enough. We should get back before your mother starts to worry.”

“You mean _our_ mother.”

Sasuke doesn’t respond to that, pocketing the kunai and beginning to walk. Young Sasuke quickly runs over to him, falling into step next to him.

“Do we have to go yet?” he asks. “I want to learn a jutsu. Like the fireball jutsu you showed me! Can you teach me that?”

Sasuke and his younger self spent the better part of the afternoon training together. Or rather, Sasuke trained while the seven-year-old watched with rapt attention. He had seemed utterly amazed by his future self’s skills, claiming he was _almost cooler than Nii-san!_

The comment had made Sasuke bite his tongue until it bled.

There wasn’t much Sasuke could actually teach his younger self, since the boy had such a low supply of chakra. He demonstrated the fireball jutsu for him, and had even contemplated teaching it to him, but the memory of him and his father down by the dock made him stop.

( _That’s my boy._ )

Fugaku teaching him _Katon_ is one of the few precious memories he has of his father, and one that he holds close to his heart. He doesn’t want to take that memory away by teaching Young Sasuke the jutsu himself.

“You should ask Father to teach you that one,” Sasuke says.

Young Sasuke’s shoulders slump and he looks toward the ground. “He won’t. He only ever pays attention to Nii-san.”

“Maybe. But you should still ask him. Show some initiative.”

Young Sasuke frowns, mouthing the word _initiative_ to himself. Does he understand it? Sasuke doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what level of language a child should be expected to comprehend. Did he understand words like that at seven?

The two of them are silent for a few moments as they walk through the forest, heading back towards their house. Young Sasuke looks at him with undisguised interest, and his gaze falls to the scabbard at Sasuke’s waist.

“It’s cool that you fight with a sword,” he says. “ _Nii-san_ doesn’t fight with a sword. Mom used to, but she doesn’t anymore. She never lets me use any of hers.”

Sasuke’s mouth twitches. “That’s because she let Itachi try once when he was a kid—and he ended up stabbing himself.”

“ _Nii-san_ did?!”

Sasuke nods. Young Sasuke gapes, unable to imagine his perfect elder brother doing something so embarrassing. After a moment, shock turns to humor, and a laugh escapes his lips.

When they walk up to their house, Little Sasuke is still giggling as Sasuke regales him with the tale that Shisui once told him—that apparently, the seven-year-old hasn’t heard yet. They step inside, stopping by the door to take off their shoes on the mat.

Mikoto walks out of the kitchen when she hears them come in the front door. “There the two of you are! Did you have fun?”

Sasuke wonders if seeing his mother, smiling and alive in front of him, will ever stop feeling like a gut-punch.

Young Sasuke nods with a bright smile. “Mom!” he says eagerly. “Is it true Nii-san once stabbed himself with one of your swords?”

Mikoto blinks. A small laugh escapes her, and she walks over to him, kneeling down and resting a hand on the boy’s head.

“Maybe,” she says, then adds in a whisper, “Don’t bring it up to your brother, okay? He gets _embarrassed_.”

Sasuke knows that just by saying that, his mother has now guaranteed that the seven-year-old definitely _will_ bring it up to Itachi.

“I was just about to start dinner,” Mikoto says. “Any special requests?”

“Tomatoes,” Young Sasuke says, and Mikoto laughs.

“That’s not a dinner, dear.” She turns her head up toward her future son. “What do you say? Anything in particular?”

Sasuke is about to say it doesn’t matter, before stopping to actually think about it. “Maybe sukiyaki? With the sauce you make—with vermouth?”

Mikoto smiles. “You remembered. Sure, I can make that.”

“With tomatoes,” Young Sasuke says.

Mikoto ruffles his hair, standing back up. “ _Yes,_ Sasuke-kun. With tomatoes.”

Young Sasuke grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Sasuke puts a hand on the hilt of his sword, looking around. The room they’re standing in is empty of anyone else, as is the kitchen.

“Do you know where Itachi is?” Sasuke asks.

Mikoto doesn’t need to ask which one. She tilts her head in the direction of the stairs. “I think he’s up in his room. He was at the library earlier, but he came back about an hour ago.”

Sasuke nods in thanks. His mother turns toward the kitchen, while he moves in the direction of the stairs.

It’s been a while since he’s seen Itachi— _his_ Itachi. Despite the fact that they’re occupying the same house, his murderous traitor of a brother is doing a fantastic job at avoiding him. Whenever Sasuke is at the house, he never seems to be there. They’re supposed to be sleeping in the same bedroom, but that lasted for a single (sleepless) night, after which Itachi apparently found other accommodations.

It’s not that Sasuke _wants_ to sleep in the same room as him, of course—but it is frustrating now that he’s avoiding him. Sasuke has _questions_ , and though he doubts Itachi will actually answer him, Sasuke would at least like to be able to pin him down long enough to _ask_.

(Or to violently demand. Whichever works best.)

Itachi is sitting on the bed when he enters the room. The sight of him, posed so _casually_ in his childhood bedroom, screws with Sasuke’s mind. He’s ditched the Akatsuki cloak for the high-collared shirts he used to wear, and it’s so easy to believe that nothing has changed. That no time has passed.

The massacre never happened. The woman downstairs is _his_ mother, not a memory of her. The man in front of him is the brother he grew up with, not the monster that haunts his sleep.

Itachi looks up at him with those cold eyes and that blank expression, and the illusion is instantly shattered.

“Did you want something or do you just intend to stand there?”

Anger flares, burning hot in his veins. Sasuke reins it in with clenched hands and teeth. Eight months under Orochimaru’s tutelage has taught him self-control.

( _Anger is a weapon_ , Orochimaru told him. _Rage is a wildfire. One can be used. The other uses you._ )

Sasuke exhales slowly. His nails dig half-moon marks into his skin.

“Mother said you went to the library,” he says. The calmness to his own voice surprises him. “What for?”

“Research,” Itachi says. There’s a book on his lap that he’s flipping through. “Trying to find a way to get us back to our time, since you seem content with playing house.”

Sasuke’s jaw tightens. _Control_ , he reminds himself.

“How is that going, by the way?” Itachi asks, not glancing up from the pages in front of him. “I thought you were going to save our clan? And yet, strangely, you haven’t made a single attempt on my younger self’s life. It’s almost like you don’t want to kill him.”

Sasuke feels the words strike something. He inhales sharply. “Shut up.”

“Why, Sasuke? Why haven’t you tried?”

Sasuke can’t answer. Why hasn’t he? He’s had plenty of chances to take thirteen-year-old Itachi out—to slam his Chidori through his chest or slit his throat with a kunai or poison his morning tea—so why hasn’t he?

He would gladly kill the man sitting in front of him now. Would gladly watch the light leave his eyes and his chest fall for the last time. So why does the thought of taking the life of the younger one make him feel vaguely sick?

Itachi seems to read his mind, because he looks upon Sasuke with disdain. “You are truly pathetic, otouto.”

Sasuke feels lightning spark at his fingertips. “Sorry,” he says, voice venomous, “that I don’t find killing my own blood to be as easy as you do.”

Itachi looks at him with an unreadable expression. “Then you still don’t have enough hatred.”

The same words as that day. Sasuke can feel the hand around his throat and the breath against his ear, his world drowning in blood—

“Shut _up_!”

His control snaps beneath the rush of memory—twenty-four hours surrounded by screams, watching that katana slash down over and over and _over_. He lunges, sword slicing through the air—

The blade is knocked from his hand. Itachi is standing, twisting Sasuke’s arms and trapping his body against him before he can so much as blink.

Sasuke’s heart pounds painfully against his ribs. His back is pressed to his brother’s chest, and Itachi’s mouth is by his ear. Sasuke can’t breathe through the memories, through the _fear_.

“Don’t be _stupid_ ,” Itachi says. “Mother is right downstairs, or have you forgotten?”

Sasuke feels frozen in place. It feels like the hotel all over again, Itachi’s hair brushing his cheek. His grip on Sasuke’s arms is iron-clad, preventing any movement.

“I’ll kill you,” Sasuke says quietly. “I swear I will.”

“Then do it. Because right now, you’re nothing more than a yapping pup. I thought you said going to Orochimaru was so you could become stronger, but from what I’ve seen, you’re just as weak as you’ve always been. Your resolve is weak. Your hatred is _weak_.”

The nineteen-year-old releases his brother’s arms, pushing him away and causing him to stumble.

“You’re a disappointment,” Itachi says. “ _Grow up_. Otherwise there was no point in even letting you live.”

With those cutting words, his brother leaves. Sasuke is left alone in the bedroom, suddenly feeling seven years old. Bodies are surrounding him and the streets are drenched in blood.

( _You’re not even worth killing._ )

Nothing has changed. Nothing at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Last chapter everyone was threatening Itachi with violence XD Here's the next chapter, completely from Itachi's point of view, which might help soften your hearts toward him. (He's definitely making mistakes, and there's no excuse for what he's putting Sasuke through, but this chapter is a reminder that he isn't in a good place either, and he's having just as much of a hard time as Sasuke is.)

Itachi spends the fifteen minutes before dinner gripping the edge of the toilet, hacking up the blood trapped in his lungs.

Each cough wrenches horribly at his chest, like a razor blade shredding his lungs. It makes him unable to draw in a breath, sending him into another fit of hacking just as the last one is finished. The blood rises up in his throat, thick and metallic, and he chokes on it.

Tears have sprung to his eyes. He grips the seat of the toilet with bone-white knuckles, the coughs scraping his throat raw, and waits for the attack to stop.

Eventually, it does. Itachi leans his forehead against his fist, his elbow resting against the edge of the toilet. He reaches up to flush the blood away, wiping it from his lips.

His body is weak and exhausted just from sitting there and bearing it, and the back of his throat feels raw and shredded. He shuts the lid of the toilet, staying there on the tiled floor.

Every draw of breath sends a spike of pain through his lungs, and he can feel himself trembling. He feels a burst of loathing for his pathetic state—a disgrace to both Konoha and the Akatsuki. If only his partner could see him now…

Sasuke is downstairs. If Itachi concentrates, he can hear two different versions of his voice mingling—a teenager and a seven-year-old. His mother’s voice is among them as well. Dinner should be nearly done, and Fugaku should be home soon.

It’s been less than an hour since the harsh words he spoke to his younger brother—the _desperate_ words, as he struggled to keep up the act that is falling to pieces around him. He knows that he’s being more transparent than usual, but the stress is causing his usual faculties to fray. He’s woven dozens of threads, of _lies_ , and it’s draining trying to remember which ones he isn’t allowed to let cross.

The things his parents are allowed to know… that his younger self is allowed to know… that Sasuke is allowed to know. He’s spinning different threads for each of them, and it’s exhausting.

With a keen enough eye, his deceptions will unravel. Itachi can only hope to keep his brother angry, to prevent him from looking too close.

Sasuke has attained greater self-control while under Orochimaru’s influence; he is better collected, no longer the foolish child who came charging at him with that Chidori. But push him far enough, and his hatred still blinds him. It’s still exploitable.

Guilt burns in Itachi’s chest, but he’s used to it by now.

There’s a knock on the locked door, and Itachi tenses, raising his head.

“Nii-san?”

The voice causes him to flinch. It’s Young Sasuke, once again forgetting to address him by name. Itachi didn’t even register when he stopped hearing his voice from the floor below them.

“Yes?” he says, and immediately winces. His throat is scraped raw, and it’s reflected in his voice.

Young Sasuke doesn’t seem to pick up on it with a door between them. “Mom says to come downstairs. She’s done with dinner.”

“Be right down.”

Itachi waits until he hears the light footsteps retreating. Then, with arms that still hold a slight tremor, he pushes himself to his feet.

He looks in the mirror, making sure there are no traces of blood on his lips. His face is paler than it should be, but he’s always been fair-skinned, so he hopes the sickly pallor will go unnoticed. He sticks his hands under the facet, cleaning them thoroughly.

His nail polish is beginning to chip away, and Itachi winces slightly at the signs of sickness that can be seen there. His nails are too brittle and too pale, with spots of white that are a result of his medication.

His mother has nail polish, though Itachi doesn’t know where. Her room? He wonders if he could snag a bottle…

When he reaches the kitchen downstairs, everyone is already at the table, except Fugaku. Young Sasuke smiles at him brightly as he pulls back the empty chair next to their mother to sit down. It’s a sharp contrast to the older version, who is avoiding looking at him completely.

Reminded of their earlier confrontation, Itachi quickly shoves down any traces of his guilt.

“Your father is working late at the office today,” Mikoto says. “So he won’t be able to make it home for dinner.”

Young Sasuke huffs. “Again?”

Mikoto reaches over to pat him on the head. “He has important clan matters to handle, sweetie.”

Young Itachi’s hand tightens around his fork.

No one says anything for a while, and silence descends over the kitchen table, broken only by the clinking of silverware. Itachi is confused by the presence of his younger self, who was meant to be on a mission. He tries to think back on his own memories, to remember what might have happened, but all his various ANBU missions from then have blurred together.

Young Sasuke is poking at his food, and every once in a while, he sends his older brother a displeased look. Apparently, he’s still irritated at him for reneging on their promise to train.

Young Itachi notices this, of course. “I’m sorry about not training with you,” he says. “Especially since the mission ended up getting rescheduled. Forgive me?”

Young Sasuke shrugs. Itachi can see his anger slip away the moment the words _I’m sorry_ are heard, the way it always used to be back then, but pride prevents the boy from immediately giving in.

“Whatever,” Young Sasuke grumbles, as he picks around the mushrooms on his plate.

Young Itachi smiles slightly, knowing his brother’s forgiveness has been won. He pushes a few tomato slices onto the boy’s plate, immediately winning even more points.

“So, Itachi-kun,” their mother says, addressing the younger version of her eldest son. “When has your mission been rescheduled to?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

Mikoto’s mouth tightens slightly, worry showing in her eyes. “But tomorrow is—”

“I know,” Young Itachi says, his jaw clenching. “But those are my orders. I’ll have to miss it.”

“Your father won’t be happy.”

“I know…”

Young Sasuke is frowning, appearing confused at the exchange. The fourteen-year-old version doesn’t even appear to be listening, lost in his own head. Itachi, however, pays close attention to the words, and he feels a sharp spike of dread when he realizes what they’re talking about.

The assembly. The assembly that he missed because of a mission… the assembly that took place the night Shisui was summoned by Danzo…

Itachi remembers the edge of a cliff. Blood trailing down Shisui’s face like tears, the eyeball held out in his hand and the smile curving his lips. _Don’t stop me, Itachi…_

His body tipping backward. Itachi lunging, too slow—

 _Shisui dies tomorrow_ , Itachi realizes, and it’s like being kicked in the chest.

He drops the fork in his hand, feeling like he’s going to be sick. It clangs loudly against his plate, causing the conversation to cease completely, four pairs of eyes turning to look at him.

“Sweetheart?” Mikoto says hesitantly. “Are you okay?”

Itachi can’t breathe. Their eyes make him feel like he’s being boxed in, and all he can see is his best friend’s face as his body fell away from him. As it hit the water—

Itachi swallows, his injured throat aching as he does. “May I be excused?”

Sasuke is looking at him with a narrow gaze. Itachi ignores him, focusing instead on their mother.

“Of course,” Mikoto says softly. The concern in her eyes burns him.

Itachi pushes his chair back, dropping his plate in the sink before leaving the kitchen. He doesn’t look at any of them as he does. As he hightails it back up the stairs, he overhears Little Sasuke’s voice, asking their mother if Itachi is okay.

Itachi retreats to his old bedroom—the bedroom where he’s meant to be sleeping in during his stay here. He closes the door, twisting the lock just in case someone decides to come after him. He feels nauseous. His chest is hurting again.

_Shisui._

He didn’t realize it was so close. He knew, of course, that the date must be creeping closer. But he was so focused on finding a way back, he didn’t realize it was _tomorrow_.

His best friend dies tomorrow. And Itachi is going to do nothing. He is going to let it happen.

Itachi places his hands on his knees. They’re shaking. He forces himself to pull it together—to not let his mask crack. If he lets himself fall apart when he’s alone, then it will only become easier for him to let himself do it when he’s around other people.

No. He can’t break.

Itachi bites the inside of his mouth until he tastes blood. He reminds himself of all the sacrifices he’s made—the blood that stains his hands and the hatred he cultivated in his younger brother’s eyes. He’s done too much to let it fall apart now; he can’t let it all be for nothing.

Tomorrow evening, Kotoamatsukami will fail. Shisui Uchiha will die—and the thirteen-year-old downstairs will watch his best friend fall away from him.

( _Don’t stop me, Itachi. If you’re really my friend…_ )

Itachi closes his eyes. And he tries not to think of three days earlier—Shisui’s arm around his shoulder, holding him up. His smile, his laugh, how he looked so _alive_.

Itachi wonders if there was ever a time he didn’t hate himself. If so, he can’t remember it.

Night falls, and Itachi stays where he is. He hears footsteps on the stairs at one point, but Sasuke doesn’t come to the room. Itachi stares at the half moon through the window and wonders where his brother is sleeping.

Itachi’s old childhood bedroom is bare of any personal touches. Itachi knows if he goes inside the top drawer of his dresser, he’ll find a picture-frame with him and Sasuke in it—hidden out of sight, as if the proof that he cares is something to be ashamed of.

Itachi pulls it out now, pushing aside his clothes to get to the bottom. He and Sasuke look so young in the picture—so _happy_. It feels like another lifetime completely. That nine-year-old doesn’t look like him, but rather, a stranger under a henge.

Surely he never smiled that easily. Surely his eyes never looked that light.

Itachi puts the picture back. Suddenly, his childhood bedroom is suffocating. He steps outside it, into the hallway. The house is dark and silent, though it’s entirely possible his parents are still awake. Their residence is large, and their bedroom is on the complete other side of the house.

Itachi sinks down onto the first step of the stairwell, resting his arms on his knees. He doesn’t move, simply sits there thinking.

Insomnia plagues his mind. His brain refuses to quiet down. He keeps seeing Shisui falling away from him. His katana cutting through members of his clan. The splatters of blood throughout the compound. Sasuke’s terrified, tearful eyes.

The images never go away. Itachi digs his nails into his arms, stifling the cough that rises in his throat.

Sasuke’s words rise up in his mind—his hateful, accusing tone. _I’m sorry that I don’t find killing my own blood to be as easy as you do._

And now he was going to do it again. He was going to sit by and let them be killed. Let his best friend die an unsung martyr, let a thirteen-year-old soak his hands in blood, break the heart of the person he cared about most in the world. Can he really justify letting all of this play out _again_?

Could he justify the consequences of deciding _not_ to?

Itachi is so lost in thought, he almost doesn’t see the small figure walking up the stairs until they’re sitting down next to him. He really needs to pull himself together.

“Sasuke,” he says, when the seven-year-old sinks down next to him on the top of the stairs. “What are you doing up?”

Young Sasuke pulls his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. “Father and Nii-san were fighting. I fell asleep in the living room, and they woke me up.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“Something about the assembly Nii-san mentioned at dinner. He told Father that he wasn’t going to go.”

Itachi immediately remembers. The argument he had with Fugaku about missing another clan meeting due to his mission. Sasuke attempted to listen in, but Itachi caught him. Fugaku yelled at him, snapping at him harshly to get back to bed.

It’s so odd to realize. For him, that moment was over five years ago. For the boy next to him, it was less than two minutes ago.

“I remember,” Itachi says. “Father shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

Young Sasuke shrugs. “Eavesdropping is disrespectful.”

Itachi doesn’t know what to do here. The smart thing to do, to avoid affecting the future anymore than they undoubtedly already have, would be to stand up and walk away. He doesn’t need his Sasuke somehow remembering this—his coldhearted, missing-nin brother from the future talking kindly to him.

But Itachi can’t bring himself to move. He stares at this image of his brother—innocent, without the pain and anger that will soon take over his eyes—and he can’t look away.

Young Sasuke frowns. “What was Nii-san—what were _you_ —arguing about with Father? What assembly were you talking about?”

Itachi turns his head away. “You should ask your own brother that question.”

“He won’t answer me.”

“Then what makes you think I will?”

Young Sasuke doesn’t respond. Itachi doesn’t want to be here with him, but he can’t make himself stand up either. Unbidden, he finds his mind calculating how many days the child next to him has left. How many days until he comes home to a nightmare, the streets soaked in blood and his beloved older brother standing over his parents’ warm bodies—

( _Nii-san! I don’t understand!)_

The tears that flooded Sasuke’s eyes. His _screams_ , as Itachi caught him in the Tsukuyomi. The way he hit the floor and the emptiness to his expression. Itachi doesn’t want Sasuke to look like that again. He doesn’t want Sasuke to look at _him_ like that—

Suddenly, there are arms wrapping around his waist. Itachi startles, instinctively trying to jerk away, before realizing the body leaning into him is Young Sasuke’s. He’s hugging Itachi tightly, his face pressed against his shoulder.

It takes Itachi a moment to unfreeze. For a few seconds, all he can do is blink down.

Hesitantly, Itachi rests his hand on the back of the child’s head. He begins to card his fingers gently through his hair, like he used to do when his brother came to his room after a nightmare.

“What’s this for?” he asks softly, afraid to break the moment.

Young Sasuke tightens his arms around him. “You looked sad.”

Itachi releases a shaky breath. His chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with his illness. He stares down at his hand against Sasuke’s dark hair, and it makes him feel sick. He feels like his touch is poisonous—like he’s tainting something innocent—but still, he can’t bring himself to move.

He allows the little boy to hold him tightly, when he should be shoving him away.

“Thank you, otouto,” he whispers.

He continues petting the boy’s hair, knowing how upset he must be after overhearing the argument and being snapped at. Eventually, he drops off against Itachi’s thigh. He looks so fragile, and once again, the guilt crashes over him like a tsunami.

_How could I ever destroy something so precious?_

Every breath the boy takes, sleeping against him, is completely unbearable. He feels like he’s staining his brother with the blood that soaks him, but he can’t bring himself to wake him up and move him either. So he stays there, and so does Itachi.

Young Itachi comes up the stairs after about twenty more minutes. A strange expression crosses his face when he sees the two of them, before his stance quickly becomes protective.

“Get away from him,” Young Itachi orders.

Itachi knows himself. He knows very well what must be going through the thirteen-year-old’s head right now. “I’m not going to hurt him.”

Young Itachi’s expression doesn’t change. Of course he doesn’t believe him—why should he? He might not know about what he’s done in the future, but he’s perceptive. He can read the relationship between the two time-travelers, has no doubt noticed things that neither of his parents have.

Like the finger-shaped bruises around Sasuke’s neck that he attempts to hide with the collar of his shirt—the size of them, as well as the time-frame they must have been received. The way Sasuke is always careful to stand out of Itachi’s immediate reach, the way he flinches when he moves suddenly.

Yes. Young Itachi knows that his future self has hurt Sasuke, even if he does not understand why. So this protectiveness makes sense. Itachi knows how he would react to a threat to his baby brother—even if that threat is a version of himself.

Itachi hesitates. Then, slowly, he moves the sleeping seven-year-old off of him. Young Itachi moves to immediately take the nineteen-year-old’s place, settling his sleeping brother on his lap instead.

Young Sasuke twitches slightly, his closed eyes scrunching. Young Itachi brushes his cheek gently, soothing him back to sleep. “Shh. It’s okay, Sasuke.”

Itachi stands, watching the scene with a dull ache in his heart. He destroyed this with his own hands. He’ll never get it back. And he feels pity for the thirteen-year-old in front of him—but also anger. Anger, because the boy in front of him is naïve. He doesn’t understand the preciousness of this moment, of how quickly it will be lost.

He doesn’t understand. He thinks he’ll be able to shield his brother from anything. That his body, standing between him and the enemy, will be enough to keep the seven-year-old safe.

“You can’t protect him forever,” Itachi tells him. “The world is going to hurt him. It’s going to break him. You can’t stop it.”

Young Itachi looks up at him. The fire in his eyes is something long-forgotten. “I’ll die before I let that happen.”

And Itachi can only smile bitterly in response.

“You won’t. You’ll just wish you did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone in the comments a couple chapters back asked for a scene with Tiny!Sasuke hugging Future Itachi. I don't remember who it was and I'm too lazy to go back and check, but there you go. I was already planning it before it was asked for, though ;) ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week on Keeping Up With the Uchihas: Fugaku fails at parenting his youngest son (both versions). Itachi tries to offer him advice, but unfortunately, both of them are too much alike and both of them fail at understanding each other. :/

“Fugaku, _please_. I understand your position, but won’t you just listen to me?”

Fugaku stacks the papers in front of him into a neat pile, slipping them into a folder. He looks up at his wife with a frustrated expression. “Clearly you don’t understand my position. Because if you did, you would not be asking this of me.”

He stands from his desk with the folder in hand, passing her by to reach the filing cabinet against the wall. Mikoto spins around, catching his arm at the elbow. He pulls sharply out of her grip.

She ignores the pang of hurt she feels. She knows how her husband can get, and she knows how difficult this already is for him. He is not in the best mood—in large part due to the argument he had with Itachi late last night. She won’t take it personally.

But he wants her to sit down and be quiet, and she can’t do that. She _won’t_ do that.

“You know I don’t want to do this,” she says. “But I’m trying to protect our children—”

Fugaku slams the filing cabinet closed, turning to face her sharply. “And what do you think I’m trying to do, Mikoto?!”

Mikoto is unable to stop a slight flinch—ingrained instincts from childhood rearing their ugly head at the sound of a raised voice. She feels embarrassment flood her, and Fugaku’s eyes flash with guilt. The lines of his face soften.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his demeanor instantly different. He steps closer to her, his hand cupping her cheek.

Mikoto shakes her head, still embarrassed by her own reaction. She has fought in a war, after all. The fact that a raised voice or a sharp movement can sometimes cause her to flinch, even after all these years, is ridiculous.

She covers the hand on her cheek with her own. “I know you’re trying to protect them. I’m just worried we’re doing it the wrong way.”

Images of her future children flash in her mind. Future Sasuke shaking apart in her arms, his tears soaking into her blouse. The fragility in Future Itachi’s eyes when she reached out to brush his cheek—and the _Mangekyou_.

“I don’t want them to be hurt.”

Fugaku shakes his head. “And you think calling off the coup will stop that? You’re being naïve and you know it.”

“You saw the way they look at us. We don’t _survive_ , Fugaku.”

Fugaku’s hand falls from her cheek. She can see in his eyes that he knows just as well as she does—that he has taken notice of the way their two future sons look at them. Like they are ghosts. Like they are looking through them.

“It’s too late, Mikoto. The entire clan wants this. And we already knew this was a possibility. I was hoping we could accomplish our takeover without bloodshed, but I knew it would be unlikely.”

Mikoto can’t say anything to this. It’s true. She prepared for the possibility that she would die—that her husband would die. She wasn’t surprised when she realized she would. But it seems so much realer and harsher when she sees the consequences of her death standing in front of her. The pain and grief in her future children’s eyes.

Her voice shakes when she speaks. “We’re going to leave them alone.”

Fugaku’s jaw tightens. “They won’t be alone. They’re going to have each other. Itachi loves Sasuke more than his own life, and he’ll make sure he grows up safe. Our clan will be _free_.”

Mikoto bites her lip. She’s so sick of the oppression, of the discrimination. She’s sick of the looks she gets when she walks down the street, the looks her _children_ get. She wants to live in a place that feels like home, and Konoha hasn’t felt like that in so long.

She wants to raise her children in a place where they are safe. Where she isn’t forbidden from so much as looking in the direction of her best friend’s son.

“I want that, too,” she says. “You know I want that. I’m just… I’m afraid.”

Fugaku brushes her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. “Do not be afraid. I promise you, I will keep this family safe.”

* * *

Fugaku is unable to get his wife’s words out of his head. They stay with him throughout the day, no matter how hard he attempts to shake them.

( _We’re going to leave them alone._ )

He has made up his mind. They are too far into their plans to change them now, and the fact that Mikoto even thought it as a possibility is ludicrous. Stop the coup—at this stage? Impossible, even if he had agreed with her.

Fugaku holds no ambition to become Hokage—to steal power for himself. His intentions are to protect his clan, his family. He has delayed these events for years now, searching for a different option, a _peaceful_ option. But there isn’t one. Nothing is going to change for their clan, and so they must make the change themselves.

But still, Mikoto’s words unsettle him.

He has seen the same things she has in their two time-travelers. He hasn’t spent much time with them at all, barring family meals and the afternoon spent assisting Future Itachi. But the grief in their eyes is obvious. More so on Future Sasuke than Future Itachi, whom Fugaku can read just as well as his current eldest son—meaning not at all.

But the Mangekyou in his eyes is damning enough. His wife’s words come back to him again.

( _We don’t survive, Fugaku._ )

Fugaku shuts the emotions away. These two time-travelers may look like his sons, may in some ways _be_ his sons, but in reality, they _aren’t_. Fugaku won’t let a bad premonition guide the decisions he makes—he has to do what is best for _his_ sons—the current ones.

The seven-year-old now at the Academy—who has the potential to be so much more, if only he applied himself like his brother. And the thirteen-year-old now off on a mission—whom Fugaku is still extremely angry at in regards to their argument last night.

 _He should be home,_ Fugaku thinks, his hands clenching, _not running off on the Hokage’s orders. The meeting is tonight, and he’s going to miss it again—_

When he reaches the house, Mikoto is not there. A pair of her shoes is missing, as well as one of her jackets. Fugaku unclips his belt and sword, hanging them on one of the hooks by the door.

He walks into the kitchen, and something within him still startles when he sees the older version of his eldest sitting there.

“Father,” Future Itachi greets, in a voice that is just slightly deeper than his younger counterpart’s.

There is something very unsettling about looking at him. He’s the mirror image of Fugaku’s first son, only slightly taller and with deeper lines on his face. But something about him is also very different, and Fugaku can’t pinpoint what it is.

“Mikoto isn’t home yet?” he asks. Even knowing this boy is his son, it feels wrong to address her as _your mother_ to him.

“She went out,” Future Itachi says, his eyes lowered on the scroll on the table in front of him. “To the market, I think.”

He watches the nineteen-year-old silently, knowing he is undoubtedly aware of his gaze. It’s been about a week since the two time-travelers have arrived; he has been too busy with clan matters to make the issue of sending them back to their time a priority, but if the boy in front of him truly is his son, then he trusts in his ability to handle it.

He remembers what they discovered about the Mochizuki Clan’s jutsu—that it sends a person back to the time of their deepest regret. He has resolved against knowing any future information, in letting the possibility of what he learns cloud the choices he makes—but still, it’s tempting to ask.

Tempting to ask about everything—about what this ‘deepest regret’ could be. Is it their deaths? The coup?

“Where is your brother?” Fugaku asks instead.

“Outside in the back. Both of them.”

Fugaku turns and immediately turns in that direction. Itachi doesn’t once look up at him.

The evening air is slightly chilly, unusual for this time of year. The sun is covered by clouds, but the sky is still bright. Fugaku steps onto the porch, his eyes seeking out the two figures not too far away.

Future Sasuke is standing a good distance away, while his seven-year-old counterpart is watching intently from beneath a tree. Future Sasuke is making seals with his clasped hands—but he’s forming them slowly and carefully, not flashing through them quickly like one would do in a battle.

 _Monkey, dragon, rat, bird_ —Fugaku recognizes the signs as being for lightning-style techniques.

Electricity crackles in the air, like birds chirping. Blue chakra lights up in Future Sasuke’s palm, sparking.

Fugaku recognizes it. “That’s Chidori,” he says, though his slight surprise doesn’t show in his voice. He walks down from the porch to stand a few paces closer.

Sasuke startles at his voice, head snapping around to look at him. Future Sasuke doesn’t. Good—he’s aware of his surroundings.

“Kakashi Hatake’s jutsu. Where did you learn it?”

Future Sasuke glances at him, pausing slightly before he answers. “He taught it to me.”

Fugaku has only seen the jutsu himself once. But he knows about it from Itachi, who was on the jounin’s ANBU squad for a year before being promoted. It’s a jutsu that utilizes their clan’s doujutsu to be able to perform correctly.

(A doujutsu that isn’t _his_ —but Obito Uchiha fought bravely, so his dying wish will be honored.)

But Future Sasuke isn’t striking out with it. He’s looking down at it with a furrow in his brow, concentrating intently. The blue chakra in his palm, channeled into electricity and sharpened to a deadly point, is moving, struggling to be shaped into something else—

Fugaku raises an eyebrow when he realizes what the time-traveler is doing. “You’re attempting to modify the Chidori?”

“I already have,” Future Sasuke says. “Twice. But I’ve only just started attempting the third form.” He releases the jutsu, allowing the lightning to fade from his palm. “It would be easier to do if I wasn’t so _distracted_.”

Fugaku turns in the direction of his seven-year-old, who is watching his future self with undisguised awe. “Sasuke.”

Both versions of Sasuke snap their eyes in his direction at the tone, their backs straightening. Future Sasuke relaxes slightly once he sees his father isn’t addressing him.

“Don’t you have homework?” Fugaku asks. “Go inside and work on it. Stop wasting time out here.”

Sasuke lowers his head, seeming much smaller than he was a second ago. “Yes, Father.”

He stands up from beneath the tree, walking obediently up the porch steps and back into the house. Future Sasuke frowns at his back as he goes.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.

“You said you were distracted.”

“He was fine.”

Fugaku shakes his head. He wonders if his youngest son has retained his habit of spending useful time frivolously, since he seems to find nothing wrong with his younger self’s behavior.

“Regardless of whether he was bothering you, he has other things he should be doing,” says Fugaku. “He needs to learn discipline. Itachi was much better behaved at that age.”

Future Sasuke’s jaw tightens slightly. “You always do that,” he mutters.

There’s anger there—but also an undercurrent of something else. He looks away, hiding whatever emotion it is.

Fugaku decides to let it go. By chiding his younger self, he is also chiding the older boy in front of him by default. It’s strange to remember, that everything occurring now to the seven-year-old that just retreated is a years’-ago memory to the teenager in front of him.

He is tempted to turn around, to head back inside and leave the boy to train. But despite his insistence to himself that these time-travelers are strangers, there is still a part of him that is curious. That causes him to linger, cataloging all the slight changes to the face in front of him.

His jawline is sharper, more defined. There’s a small scar near the end of his right eyebrow, a faint white line that’s barely noticeable. A sword hangs at his hip—he’d glimpsed the weapon a few days ago, during dinner.

And Fugaku can’t deny that he wants to know about the boy in front of him. If he really is going to die…

“It’s impressive,” Fugaku tells him, “that you’ve created two variations of a jutsu. Changing a chakra’s form can be very difficult.”

The compliment is rewarded with a look of genuine surprise. “You… Really?”

Fugaku nods. “It’s quite a feat. What rank are you?”

He suspects high-level chuunin. Itachi’s early graduation was a special case—Sasuke is not as naturally gifted and skilled as his elder brother, but he’s an Uchiha. Even if he’s not a genius, Fugaku still expects he is a wide breadth above his peers.

(Itachi has not made jounin yet—but he would have, were this a time of war. His placement in the ANBU is a testament to that.)

Future Sasuke pauses, an odd look coming over his face. It’s almost _nervous_. This is something he shares with his younger self, who has always been rather skittish around him, but Fugaku expected him to have grown out of such behavior by now.

“Well?” Fugaku says when the silence persists. “I understand your mother and I aren’t around in your future, but I should hope your brother still managed to instill you with _manners_.”

Future Sasuke’s head snaps up—he has outgrown his mother, but Fugaku still towers over him by a few good inches. “ _Itachi didn’t_ —!”

Fugaku watches as he seems to physically bite down on the words, along with the anger in his eyes. Fugaku felt a flash of regret at his words—they were too harsh—but now it is washed away. “Itachi didn’t what?”

Future Sasuke bites his lip. He glances away. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“No. If you have something to say, then say it. Don’t hold your tongue.”

Something flickers in Future Sasuke’s eyes. Fugaku has always seen them as being like Mikoto’s—open, easy to read—but now he thinks they more resemble his. A strange defiance—maybe even _daring_ —seems to rise up in them.

“I’m _nothing_ ,” he says. “Not in this place. I’ve left it behind.”

Fugaku catches on to the meaning of the words immediately—but he refuses to believe they mean what he thinks they do. “Excuse me? What does _that_ mean?”

“I’m a missing-nin.”

Fugaku blinks, waiting for the words to sink in. _Missing-nin?_ He remembers when the two time-travelers first appeared, how Future Itachi wore a hitai-ate bearing a scratch through it—it crossed his mind briefly, then, that his eldest son might be—but _Sasuke_?

Yes, he isn’t wearing a village headband. But only genin are required to wear them in full sight. Many higher-ranked shinobi chose to keep theirs somewhere else; Fugaku keeps his own clipped to his belt, and when she was an active shinobi, Mikoto used hers to tie up her hair. So just because Fugaku didn’t see it on him, that didn’t mean—

Fugaku shakes his head, unable to believe what he’s hearing. “You’re a _what_?”

How did this happen? His own son—and he’s going to become a missing-nin? He always knew his second son wasn’t as disciplined, as tough, as his first-born. But Fugaku loves him, he _does_ , and he always believed, with Itachi as an example to follow—

“ _Unacceptable_ ,” Fugaku says, looking down at the teenager with a hard gaze. “I cannot believe a son of mine would fall so low—you would disgrace our clan name in such a way? Itachi would never—”

Future Sasuke’s eyes spark with anger. “Itachi this, Itachi that! That’s all you ever said to me! Why don’t you ask your _precious fucking heir_ —”

“That is _enough_ ,” Fugaku snaps, and he loses control of his temper for a moment, his eyes flaring red—

—and Sasuke _flinches_ , stumbling back. His bravado is gone in an instant, eyes suddenly blown wide.

Fugaku freezes, his Sharingan instantly fading.

Because for just an instant, terror flashed in the fourteen-year-old’s eyes. Gone quickly, but for a moment, that anger faltered in way of fear. And Fugaku knows that type of reaction, used to see it in Mikoto all the time when they were younger—

Fugaku’s own anger falters for a moment. “Did you… did you think I was going to _hit_ you?”

He feels sick at the thought, his stomach churning. Future Sasuke’s eyes widen slightly. “No,” he says quickly, in a way that can only be honest. “I didn’t… _no_. You never hit me.”

Fugaku feels a swoop of relief in his gut. The idea that he might ever become the type of tyrant his wife’s father was… Fugaku may be strict with his children, but he would never lay a hand on them. Still, that flinch…

Fugaku frowns. “Then why…?”

Future Sasuke avoids looking at him. “You just… you reminded me of someone else, that’s all.”

This only causes more confusion. _Someone else?_ It was the sight of his Sharingan, coupled with his anger, that caused the reaction. Who could have instilled such a response? Why—

Fugaku’s thoughts are running away from him, trying to make him forget about the manner at hand. Fugaku clenches his teeth, and the anger returns. It’s calm now, though.

He pins Future Sasuke with a look. “I am extremely disappointed,” he settles for saying. He isn’t sure what else to do—this teenager, while Sasuke, isn’t technically his son. Punishing him doesn’t feel correct, but…

But he is a _rogue ninja_. A criminal and a traitor.

The words seem to strike home. There is no righteous anger now; all of it has seemed to flee him, and Future Sasuke curls in on himself much in the same way his seven-year-old counterpart does. He doesn’t try to defend himself.

Fugaku feels a brief flash of regret for his harsh words—but it’s there and gone, and Fugaku turns his back, his anger and disappointment still burning in him. His future son doesn’t try to stop him as he heads back inside of the house.

* * *

Itachi heard every bit of the conversation from outside – Young Sasuke had left the back door open, after rushing inside following Fugaku’s reprimanding.

He wasn’t really listening at first. He was absorbed in the scroll in front of him, searching for any type of hint onto how to break this space-time jutsu and return home, and the two voices outside were just background noise—murmured conversation that he didn’t pay attention to.

Then Father raised his voice, his tone cracking like a whip of lightning—and Sasuke followed immediately after, responding to the anger with his own.

Itachi winces at what he hears, his knuckles tightening around the scroll. His little brother never dared raise his voice to their father before—but he never dared raise his voice to Itachi, either. He isn’t that soft-spoken seven-year-old anymore; now, if you bite him, he’ll bite back at you harder.

Fugaku enters through the door, his anger clear on his face. Itachi isn’t surprised when the man turns to him.

“What is wrong with that boy?” he demands. “A _missing-nin_? Does he have no sense of respect for this family?”

Itachi’s nails bite into the scroll. “Considering what this clan is going to do in less than two weeks, I fail to see where your anger comes from. Sasuke is a missing-nin—so? You’re planning to betray the village as well.”

“What we are planning is not betrayal,” Fugaku says through gritted teeth. “It is impossible to betray when one has already been betrayed. And you’re saying you _approve_ of this?”

“I’m saying it’s hypocritical of you to judge him.”

Fugaku frowns down at him. Itachi recognizes the expression of disapproval, impossible to forget even after six years. “And why did you not prevent this? If your mother and I are not around, the responsibility of raising your brother right falls to you.”

Itachi bites down on a mix of guilt and anger. His father’s voice in his last moments: _Take care of Sasuke._ But he remembers the seven-year-old that ran past him only moments ago, a familiar expression on his face, and something inside of him protests. His father is lecturing him on his mistakes regarding his younger brother, without knowing anything about them, when only moments ago he disregarded his second son completely.

Itachi remembers this part of their childhood quite well. He remembers Sasuke sitting next to him on the front porch, saying in a resentful tone, _Father only cares about you, Nii-san._ Itachi never refuted the words, only deflected them.

He never confronted his father about it. Because he was the eldest son, the heir, and he was expected to be obedient and loyal and to defer to his father in all things. Children are not meant to speak out against their parents, especially when one of those parents was the Clan Head. But that didn’t stop him from gritting his teeth every time his father’s eyes passed over Sasuke completely to look at Itachi—

“This isn’t my fault,” Itachi says, even as his mind chants at him _lie, lie, lie._ Because it’s easier to put the blame at his father’s feet than at his own, easier to blame him for everything, for Sasuke, for the massacre, _if you hadn’t planned this then maybe I wouldn’t have had to—_

Their blood is staining his hands, but it’s not his fault it had to be there, it’s not, it’s not— _why did you have to do this, why did you have to make me do this—_

“Maybe,” Itachi says, and his voice is calm and level despite the way his mind is spiraling, “if you had actually cared for Sasuke instead of discarding him—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I care about your brother.”

“You never showed it.”

Fugaku stiffens. “ _Excuse_ me?” he says lowly. Itachi has skated the line of being disrespectful many times—but _never_ has he crossed over it so blatantly before.

Itachi knows he shouldn’t engage with his father. This isn’t like him. He doesn’t understand why he’s letting these feelings escape his lips, why it’s suddenly so hard to hold them behind his teeth when he’s been doing it for _years_.

Every single second he spends in this house—in this time—every moment he’s forced to look into their faces and _remember_ —it’s so much harder than it’s ever been, like trying to hold together dozens of tiny glass shards and not let a single one fall.

And looking at his father makes him angry. Because _why did you have to do this—_

“The expectations I have placed on your brother,” Fugaku says in a hard tone, “are no different than the ones I’ve placed on you. I demand no less from you or him.”

Itachi’s eyes harden. “And that,” he says, “will always be your problem.”

“What does that mean?”

Itachi stands up from his chair, rolling up the scroll in his hand. He’s taller than his father, just barely.

“Sasuke isn’t me. He will _never_ be me. He’s amazing on his own merits, and he deserves to be told that. Stop measuring him by a standard he can never hope to live up to.”

Itachi is aware, even as the words leave his mouth, that he has no right to say them. Who is he to criticize his father, when he himself has done irreversible damage to his little brother’s self-worth? When he has mocked him, calling him foolish and worthless and weak? He has played into these well-known insecurities many times, using them to further manipulate him.

Just a few days ago, he used Sasuke’s feelings of inferiority against him—reminding him who the _favored son_ was, so he wouldn’t go spilling everything to their parents.

He’s no better than Fugaku, really—but at least his actions serve a _purpose_. What purpose did Fugaku’s serve, as he stepped over his second son’s heart without care, without even bothering to notice?

“He _loves_ you. And you don’t deserve it.”

Itachi turns and leaves the kitchen, leaving his father angry and white-faced behind him.

He retreats to the other side of the house, where he can sink down onto the floor of the empty hall, letting his head fall forward. His hands shake against his knees.

 _Pull it together,_ he snaps at himself. A rough cough forces its way up from his throat. He tastes blood in his mouth.

He knows Fugaku cares about Sasuke, despite the words he just said to him. He has to. How could he not, when his last words—

( _Take care of Sasuke._ )

Itachi is trying. But he’s starting to doubt himself. Tiny whispers are invading his head, flickers of thought that he can’t quite silence. _You’re doing it wrong. You’re doing everything wrong._

Shisui dies today—slipping from the edge of a cliff and his body crashing down into the river, washed away. His mother and father will die in nine days, falling beneath their son’s hand—

Itachi has the power to stop it. Maybe, possibly, conceivably. But he feels his entire self has been paralyzed, unable to do anything but watch as all the dominoes fall one by one into place.

* * *

The world is a blur, spinning around him. Shisui presses his hand against his bleeding, empty eye socket, struggling to see through his remaining eye and the splitting pain.

He can feel the poison slowly invading his bloodstream. He barely managed a _shunshin_ to escape, to get away from those bandaged fingers reaching toward his face. He stumbles, barely aware of himself.

 _Itachi_ , he thinks desperately, the only semi-coherent thought in his head. _Have to get to Itachi._

The evening air is cold against his face. No one is around on the compound streets. Shisui remembers, blearily, about the clan meeting— _right, I’m missing it…_

His sister is going to be angry. And the Police Force… they…

It’s hard to think. Thoughts slip away from him. His face _hurts_.

He drags himself in front of the familiar house, ringing the doorbell. He stains the white-painted door red— _Oops, Mikoto-san’s going to be pissed—_

The door opens. Shisui falls forward, into safety. His breath leaves him as he hits the ground. He fights to make his blackening vision work, as a face looms above him. A familiar face—but different than it should be—

Future Itachi stares down at him with wide eyes. “ _Shisui_?”

“I… used the doorbell… this time,” Shisui chokes out.

His head falls onto the carpet and he passes out.


End file.
